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THE  BIOGRAPHICAL   EDITION 


THE    WORKS    OF 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTIONS  BY 
HIS  DAUGHTER,  ANNE  RITCHIE 


IN    THIRTEEi^    VOLUMES 

Volume  XII. 

DENIS  DUVAL 

THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER 

ROUNDABOUT     PAPERS 


[Pa«»-«8 


LITTLE    DKNIS    DANCES    AND    SINGS    BEFORE    THE    NAVY    GENTLEMEN 


DENIS     DUVAL 

THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 
LOVEL  THE  WIDOWER,  AND 
ROUNDABOUT     PAPERS 


WILLIAM      MAKEPEACE     THACKERAY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
FREDERICK   WALKER,  AND  CHARLES   KEENE 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 


143878 


THE    BIOGRAPHICAL    EDITION   OP 
W.  M.  THACKERAY'S  COMPLETE  WORKS 

Edited  by  Mrs.  Anne  Thackeray  Ritchie 

In     13     Volumes.     With     Illustrations.     Crown     8vo, 

Cloth,  Ornamental,  Gilt  Tops each,     $2.00 

Cloth per  set,     36.00 


The  volumes  were  issued  as  far  as  possible  in  order  of  original 
publication,  as  follows: 


1.  VANITY  FAIR 

2.  PENDENNIS 

3.  YELLOWPLUSH  PAPERS, 

Etc. 

4.  BARRY  LYNDON,  Etc. 

5.  SKETCH  BOOKS,  Etc. 


7.  ESMOND,  Etc. 

8.  THE  NEWCOMES 

9.  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS,  Etc. 

10.  THE  VIRGINIANS 

11.  PHILIP,  Etc. 

12.  DENIS  DUVAL,  Etc. 


6.  CONTRIBUTIONSTO PUNCH  13.  MISCELLANIES,  Etc. 

_  This  new  and  revised  edition  comprises  additional  material  and 
hitherto  unpublished  letters,  sketches,  and  drawings  derived  from 
the  author's  original  manuscripts  and  note-books. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS.  PUBLISHERS,  N.  Y. 


Copyright,  iSgg,  by  Harphr  &  Brothers 


All  rights  reserved 
C-T 


J)41 


no 


CONTENTS 


FAQE 

INTRODUCTION xiii 

THE   WOLVES   AND    THE   LAMB 

ACT   1 3 

ACT   II 32 


LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

I.  THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET 

II.  IN    WHICH    MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR 

III.  IN    WHICH    I    PLAY    THE    SPY 

IV.  A    BLACK    SHEEP  ..... 
V.  IN    WHICH    I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT 

VI.  Cecilia's  successor         .... 


53 

72 

89 

107 

128 

145 


s 

^ 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS 


on    a    LAZY    IDLE    BOY 

NIL   NISI    BONUM 

ON    TWO    CHILDREN    IN    BLACK 

THE    LAST    SKETCH     , 


167 

173 
180 
186 


via 


CONTENTS 


HOOD 


ON    RIBBONS       .... 

ON    SOME    LATE    GREAT    VICTORIES 

THORNS    IN    THE    CUSHION 

ON    SCREENS    IN    DINING-ROOMS  . 

TUNBRIDGE    TOYS        ... 

DE    JUVENTUTE  .  .  .  . 

NOTES    OF    A    week's    HOLIDAY   .... 

ON   A    JOKE    I    ONCE    HEARD    FROM    THE    LATE    THOMAS 

ROUND    ABOUT    THE    CHRISTMAS    TREE 

ON    A    CHALK-MARK    ON    THE    DOOR       . 

ON    BEING    FOUND    OUT         ..... 
"-<-   ON    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    HENCE 

SMALL-BEER    CHRONICLE      ..... 

OGRES        ........ 

^  ON  TWO    ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS  WHICH   I   INTENDED  TO 
^    A    MISSISSIPPI    BUBBLE         ..... 

ON    LETTS'S    DIARY     ...... 

ON      HALF     A     LOAF A      LETTER     TO      MESSRS.      BROADWAY, 

BATTERY    <fc    CO.,    OF    NEW    YORK,    BANKERS     . 

THE    NOTCH  ON    THE  AXE A    STORY   A   LA  MODE.       PART   I.    . 

„  „  „  PART    II. 

PART    III 


WRITE 


» 


» 


de  finibus      .... 

on  a  peal  of  bells 

on  a  pear-tree 

dessein's  .... 

on  some  carp  at  sans  souci 

autour  de  mon  chapeau 

on  alexandrines a  letter  to  some  country  cousins 

on  a  medal  of  george  the  fourth 
'•  strange  to  say,  on  club  paper " 


PAQB 
190 

202 
209 
217 
223 
229 
242 
261 
271 
279 
289 
295 
302 
309 
316 
325 
333 

341 

348 
353 
361 
369 
377 
386 
393 
403 
409 
413 
426 
434 


CONTENTS 


ix 


DENIS   DUVAL 


OHAP. 

I.  THE  FAMILY  TKEE 


II.  THE  HOUSE  OP  SA VERNE  . 

III.  THE   TRAVELLERS 

IV.  OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS 

V.  I   HEAR   THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS 

VI.  I    ESCAPE    FROM    A    GREAT    DANGER 

VII.  THE    LAST    OF    MY    SCHOOLDAYS  . 

VIII.  I    ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  . 


PAOS 

443 
449 
469 
484 
498 
513 
526 
539 


NOTES   ON   DENIS   DUVAL 


555 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

LITTLE   DENIS    DANCES   AND   SINGS    BEFORE   THE   NAVY 

GENTLEMEN     ......  Frontispiece 

REHEARSAL  OF  "  PREiscHUTZ "        .         .        To  face  page        xvi 

PEASANT   GIRLS    DANCING  .....  page       xviii 

ROUGH    STUDY    OF    MOTHER    AND    CHILD      .  .  .        „  xix 

children's    HEADS  ,.....„  XX 

FACSIMILE  FROM  "FOUR  GEORGES"  NOTE-BOOK    To  face  JKUje        xxiv 
FACSIMILE  FROM   ''  DENIS  DUVAL  "  NOTE-BOOK  „  XXVl 

DENIS   AND    DR.    BARNARD         ...  „  XXViil 

THREE   SEAMEN page        XXxi 

CAPTAIN    BECHER,    R.N „     XXXViii 

MRS.    BECHER „     XXXViii 


LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 
Bessy's  spectacles To  face  page    86 

"where    THE    SUGAR   GOES "        ....  „  96 

BEDFORD    TO    THE    RESCUE  ....  ,,130 


Zll 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 
AN  "interviewer"  ....  To  face  page  174 

FATHER,    OR    UNCLL;  1  .....  ,,184 

A    GREAT    BATTLE „  204 

THE    EVENING    POST   ......  „  214 

UNRECOGNISED    GENIUS         .....  „  222 

A    RIDING    LESSON „  226 

LITTLE    DUTCHMEN      ......  „  254 

SIR   J-SH-A   R-N-LDS  IN  A  DOMINO.       DR.  G-LDSM-TH 

IN    AN    OLD    ENGLISH    DRESS            ...  „  262 

YOUTHFUL    PIRATES    ......  „  280 

TWEED LEDUMSKI    AND    TWEEDLEDEESTEIN    .             .  „  308 

A    SENTENCE       .......  „  338 


DENIS   DUVAL 


LAST  MOMENTS   OF   THE   COMTE   DE  S  A  VERNE 

EVIDENCE    FOR    THE    DEFENCE       . 

DENIS'S    VALET 


480 

524 
548 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS, 
DENIS    DUVAL,   etc. 

1860-1863 

I 
ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

The  "Roundabout  Papers"  might  serve  for  a  diary  of  the 
last  years  of  my  father's  work. 

One  by  one  the  times  and  the  occasions  recur  as  one  looks 
over  the  list  of  these  short  essays  which  seem  so  identified  with 
him.  The  first  of  the  series  devised  for  the  first  of  the  Corn- 
hills,  "On  a  Lazy,  Idle  Boy,"  was  begun  in  the  large  low  sitting- 
room  of  the  little  inn  at  Coire  where  we  were  detained — for 
many  weary  days.  My  brother-in-law,  Leslie  Stephen,  has  since 
told  me  that  he  saw  my  father  and  my  sister  for  the  first  time 
sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  garden  of  the  Baur  au  Lac  H6tel  at 
Zurich,  to  which  we  moved  next,  and  where  the  article  was  fin- 
ished. How  much  happiness  it  might  sometimes  give  one,  if  one 
could  recognise  lifelong  friends  to  be  in  the  people  who  seem 
to  pass  one  by,  and  yet  who  are  coming  back — for  good. 

As  for  the  "  Two  children  in  black,"  I  can  see  them  still,  as 
they  first  got  into  the  railway-carriage  with  us,  with  their  charming 
mother.  We  made  friends  all  day  long  in  the  train  to  Heidelberg, 
and  at  night  we  went  to  the  same  inn — their  name  was  written 

with  ours  in  the  travellers' book.  "Madame avec  ses  enfants." 

I  bare  forgotten  the  name,  though  I  remember  the  phrase.  How 


xiv    ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,   DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

sorry  my  father  was  for  the  poor  little  boys,  and  how  often  we 
speculated  as  to  their  history  ! 

This  paper  opens  with  a  passage  about  Montaigne.  "  Montaigne 
and  '  Howel's  Letters '  are  my  bedside  books.  If  I  wake  at  night, 
I  have  one  or  other  of  them  to  prattle  rae  to  sleep  again.  They 
talk  about  themselves  for  ever,  and  don't  weary  me.  I  like  to 
hear  them  tell  their  old  stories  over  and  over  again."  My  father 
had  a  favourite  old  Montaigne  which  he  kept  by  his  bedside. 

As  far  as  I  can  remember,  I  do  not  believe  that  he  had  any 
particular  feeling  for  special  editions.  He  used  a  cheap,  battered 
old  Boswell  with  double  columns;  the  companion  with  whom,  as 
he  said,  he  could  have  been  quite  content  to  dwell  upon  that 
problematical  desert  island.  He  also  liked  his  shabby,  worm- 
eaten  copies  of  Johnson's  poets.  Milton's  Sonnet  to  Shakespeare 
in  Johnson's  poets  was  one  of  the  last  things  he  ever  read. 
When  he  did  not  sleep  well,  sometimes  in  summer  -  time  he 
used  to  get  up  very  early,  about  four  o'clock — long  before  the 
bouse  was  astir — and  we  would  come  down  to  breakfast  and 
find  him  standing  reading  by  his  bookshelves. 

One  can  feel  as  one  reads  how  he  enjoyed  these  expeditions 
into  book  -  land,  the  long  rambles  in  that  wide,  inexhaustible 
country;  sometimes  he  seemed  to  pause  and  look  about,  and  to 
gaze  at  his  favourite  prospects.  He  returned  to  his  best  beloved 
quotations  again  and  again.  There  is  one  he  used  to  speak  of  with 
special  admiration — Goldsmith's  parable  of  the  hunted  hare : — 

"  Like  as  a  hare  whom  bounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last." 

My  father's  memory,  though  partial,  was  very  clear.  I  re- 
member Mr.  Kinglake  once  saying  that  his  quickness  of  appre- 
hension was  most  remarkable,  and  equalled  by  that  of  very  few 
people.  If  he  read  a  book  he  turned  page  after  page  without 
stopping  at  all,  in  a  rapid  methodical  way,  and  he  used  to  say 
that  from  long  habit  he  could  glean  the  contents  of  each  page 
as  he  glanced  at  it.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  an  eminent 
politician  of  this  present  time  declared  to  a  friend  that  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  him  to  read  less  than  three  lines  at  once, 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

and  some  such  power  must  have  belonged  to  my  father's  short- 
sighted eyes. 

The  third  "  Roundabout,"  "  On  Ribbons,"  has  been  lately  re- 
printed in  an  admirable  little  newspaper  called  the  Britannia, 
in  which  for  a  penny  you  can  read  something  better  worth  re- 
membering than  stale  histories  of  present  crimes  and  vulgarities. 
Things,  happily  no  less  true,  but  more  cheering  and  more  amus- 
ing to  contemplate  —  seamanship,  athletics,  speeches  of  good 
import,  active  doings  of  every  kind. 

The  number  of  this  periodical  which  quotes  the  "  Round- 
about "  "  On  Ribbons,"  warmly  endorses  my  father's  sugges- 
tion of  an  order  of  Britannia  for  seamen. 

How  well  I  remember  the  writing  of  the  paper  "  On  some  late 
Great  Victories,"  for  the  sixth  number  of  the  Cornhill,  and  its 
humorous  and  amusing  description  of  a  Roman  triumphal  pro- 
cession, and  of  "  six  great  complete  and  undeniable  victories 
achieved  by  the  corps  which  the  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
has  the  honour  to  command.  .  .  ." 

"On  the  13th  day  of  April  last  I  went  to  see  a  friend  in  a 
neighbouring  crescent,"  are  the  first  words  of  this  "Round- 
about." The  friend  was  my  grandmother,  who  lived  for  a 
couple  of  years  in  Brompton  Crescent,  and  remained  there  until 
my  grandfather's  death,  when  she  came  home  to  us.  My  father 
paid  her  a  daily  visit  on  his  way  into  town. 

There  is  one  personal  "  Roundabout  Paper "  "  On  a  Chalk 
Mark  on  the  Doof7'~which  recalls  a  housekeeper's  confusion 
when  she  read  the  paper  in  the  Cornhill,  and  went  out  to 
look  at  the  mark — she  can  still  remember  it — a  sort  of  V  in 
red  chalk  on  the  door-post  in  Onslow  Square. 

The  essay  on  a  "  Thorn  in  the  Cushion  "  is  very  well  known 
and  often  quoted.  I  found  a  packet  of  thorns  only  the  other 
day  in  an  old  box  where  I  was  looking  for  figs,  and  felt  that  a 
quarter  of  a  century  had  not  quite  swept  away  the  sting  of  these 
spinula}.  Sometimes,  as  my  father  says,  the  letters  contained 
not  mere  thorns,  but  bludgeons. 

"Round  about  the  Christmas  Tree"  is  written  in  good  spirits, 
and  about  pleasant  things.  Bobby  Mistletoe,  who  had  been  stay- 
ing with  us  for  a  week,  and  "sleeping  mysteriously  in  the  bath- 
room," may  remember  the  incident,  and  the  slight  pecuniary 


xvi    ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,   DENIS   DUVAL,  ETC. 

transactions  alluded  to.  I  wonder  if  he  remembers  the  punch 
which  Mr.  O'Morgan  pronounced  too  weak,  and  the  Pantomime. 
I  myself  can  bear  witness  to  a  winter's  walk  in  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  with  certain  childish  friends  of  those  days,  now  turned 
to  grey-headed  friends.  My  father  was  always  happy  in  the 
Zoological  Gardens.  "  If  I  have  cares  in  my  mind,"  he  says,  "  I 
come  to  the  Zoo,  and  fancy  they  don't  pass  the  gate."  On  this  oc- 
casion as  he  walked  along  he  made  up  that  well-known  poem : — 

"First  I  saw  the  white  bear,  then  I  saw  the  black; 
Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back; 
Then  I  saw  the  grey  wolf,  with  mutton  in  his  maw ; 
Then  I  saw  the  wombat  waddle  in  the  straw; 
Then  I  saw  the  elephant  a-waving  of  his  trunk ; 
Then  I  saw  the  monkeys — mercy,  how  unpleasantly  they — smelt!" 

Our  playfellows,  the  children  of  Sir  Henry  Cole,  were  with  us, 
and  the  youngest  boy  caught  up  the  rhyme,  and  ran  about  re- 
peating the  last  verse  with  its  various  readings,  sometimes  pre- 
ferring one,  sometimes  the  other. 

"  Tunbridge  Toys  "  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1860,  when 
we  were  staying  at  Tunbridge  Wells  in  an  old  wooden  house  at 
the  foot  of  Mount  Ephraim.  The  drawing-room  windows  looked 
across  a  garden  towards  the  common.  "  De  Juventute  "  was  also 
written  there.  I  remember  my  father  showing  me  the  manuscript 
at  the  time,  and  as  I  read  it  now  everything  comes  back.  The 
grandparents  were  living  in  the  ground-floor  sitting-room  ;  we 
were  established  overhead,  with  a  couple  of  puppies,  whose  an- 
tics were  the  chief  events  of  those  peaceful  days.  The  puppies 
were  called  Gumbo  and  Saidie,  after  the  two  nigger  boys  in  "  The 
Virginians."  Gumbo  had  a  fine  time  of  it,  driving  vast  herds 
of  sheep  before  him  across  Rnstington  Common.  Saidie  was  of 
a  meeker  disposition.  When  we  went  abroad  later  in  the  year, 
Saidie  returned  to  Onslow  Square,  and  Gumbo  was  sent  away  to 
live  with  our  friends  the  Synges,  a  present  for  the  aforesaid 
Bobby  Mistletoe.  I  cannot  help  describing  here  the  little  story 
my  father  told  us  of  Gumbo's  behaviour  when  they  met  again 
on  our  return  from  abroad.  Gumbo  in  his  black-and-tan  coat, 
was  quietly  passing  the  time  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
house  in  Pimlico,  when  he  saw  the  hansom-cab  driving  up  the 


"frkischutz"  opera  scene. 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

middle  of  the  street  with  my  father  inside ;  and  with  one  wild 
leap  from  the  curb-stone  he  sprang  into  the  advancing  cab  and 
landed  safe  on  my  father's  knees,  knocking  off  his  spectacles, 
and  licking  his  face  all  over. 

"The  Roundabout"  called  "Notes  of  a  Week's  Holiday"  rep- 
resents a  real  week  and  a  real  holiday,  and  one  of  the  happiest. 

We  went  to  the  play  during  that  little  journey  and  saw  a 
wonderful  performance  called  Le  Secret  de  Miss  Aurore,  of 
which  <^he  sketch  on  the  following  page  is  a  reminiscence. 
Christmas  sports  were  introduced  to  charm  the  squire.  The 
sketch  of  the  scene  from  the  Freischutz  which  is  also  given 
belongs  to  some  earlier  holiday-time. 

"Screens  in  Dining-rooms"  was  prompted  by  an  article  in 
the  Saturday  Review  reproducing  a  gossiping  one  sent  from  an 
American  newspaper.     My  father  wrote  to  Mr.  George  Smith  : — 

"  My  dear  S., — I  have  been  lying  awake  half  the  night  about 
that  paper  in  a  sort  of  despair ;  but  I  think  I  have  found  a  cli- 
max dignified  and  humorous  enough  at  last.  Heaven  be  praised, 
and  that  our  friend  won't  sin  again. — Yours  ever,    W.  M.  T." 

I  suppose  some  people  disliked  my  father — perhaps  he  thought 
there  were  more  than  really  existed.  He  was  a  diffident  man, 
sensitive,  and  easily  wounded,  especially  by  any  one  for  whom  he 
had  a  regard.  "  We  shall  never  be  allowed  to  be  friends,  that  is 
clear,"  he  says  once,  speaking  of  the  reports  concerning  him  and 

Dickens.     A   friend    of   Mr.  Dickens  said   one    day,  "  D 

Thackeray,"  which  another  friend  felt  ought  to  be  immediately 
reported  in  everybody's  interest.* 

*  There  were  happily  other  episodes  more  worthy  of  being  reported,  this 
being  but  one  among  them. 

''March  23,  1855. 

"My  dkar  Thackeray, — I  have  read  in  the  Times  to-day  an  account  of 
your  last  night's  lecture,  and  cannot  refrain  from  assuring  you  in  all  truth  and 
earnestness,  that  I  am  profoundly  touched  by  your  generous  reference  to  me. 
I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  you  what  a  glow  it  spread  over  ray  heart.  Out  of 
its  fulness  I  do  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  shall  never  forget  your  words  of 
commendation.  If  you  could  wholly  know  at  once  how  you  have  moved  me 
and  how  you  have  animated  me,  you  would  be  the  happier,  I  am  certain. — 
Faithfully  yours  ever,  Charles  Dickens." 

2 


xviii  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

One  celebrated  author  put  him  into  a  book  with  unfavourable 
comments — but  it  must  be  confessed  that  my  father  had  written 
"Codlingsby." 


PEASANT    GIRLS    DANCING. 


In  "The  Notch  on  the  Axe  "  he  describes  a  favourite  Sir  Joshua 
print.  "  When  your  spirits  are  low,"  he  writes,^  "  her  bright  eyes 
shine  on  you  and  cheer  you.     She  never  fails  to  soothe  you  with 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

her  speechless  prattle.  .  .  .  You  love  her — she  is  alive  with  you." 
The  print  is  that  charming  little  winter-piece  representing 
the  little  Lady  Caroline  Montagu,  afterwards  Duchess  of  Buc- 
cleuch.     She  is   standing  in  the  midst  of  a  winter  landscape 


ROUGH   STUDY   OF   MOTHER   AND   CHILD. 


wrapped  in  muff  and  cloak,  and  she  looks  out  of  the  picture  with 
a  smile  so  exquisite  that  a  Herod  couldn't  see  her  without  being 
charmed. 

For  this  little  Lady  Caroline  he  had  a  special  fancy. 

One  of  the  last  of  the  "  Roundabouts  "  is  called  "  On  some  Carp 
at  Sans  Souci,"  but  all  the  same  it  is  dated  from  Kensington. 
My  father  had  taken  a  fancy  to  a  little  old  woman  who  used  to 


XX     ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,   DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

come  sometimes  to  tea  at  Palace  Green,  and  he  made  her  the 
heroine  of  this  particular  paper.  A  friend  who  discovered  her  in 
a  workhouse  used  to  carry  her  some  occasional  tokens  of  good-will. 
"Ah,  you  rich  people !"  says  the  old  lady,  "  you  are  never  without 
a  screw  of  snuff  in  your  pockets."  The  old  woman  used  to  come 
to  tea  and  chatter  away  to  my  father  when  she  met  him  in  the 
hall ;  she  curtsied  with  equal  deference  to  the  page-boy,  who  treated 
her  with  more  haughtiness  perhaps.     Our  page-boy  had  serious 


children's  heads. 


views  and  doubtsabout  her  way  of  life.  "John,"  says  the  "Round- 
about Paper,"  "  when  Goody-Two-Shoes  comes  next  Friday,  I 
desire  she  may  not  be  distuihcd  l>y  theological  controversies.  .  .  . 
Make  her  comfortable  by  our  kitchen  hearth,  set  that  old  kettle 
to  sing  by  our  hob,  warm  her  old  stomach  with  nut-brown  ale 
and  a  toast  in  the  fire.  Be  kind  to  the  poor  old  school-girl  of 
ninety,  who  has  had  leave  to  come  out  for  a  day  of  Christmas 
holiday." 

The  last  of  the  "  Roundabouts  "  is  called  "  Strange  to  say,  on 
Club  Paper."  The  will  of  an  old  friend,  Lord  Clyde,  was  written 
on  the  Athenceum  note-paper,  and  this  was  remarked  upon,  and 
my  father  in  turn  remarked  upon  the  criticism. 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

"  The  proofs  and  MSS.  of  this  little  sermon  have  just  returned 
from  the  printers,  and  as  I  look  at  the  writing  I  perceive,  not 
without  a  smile,  that  one  or  two  of  the  pages  bear, '  strange  to  say,' 
the  mark  of  a  club  of  which  I  have  the  honour  to  be  a  member." 
My  father's  club  was  so  much  a  part  of  his  daily  life,  that  it  seemed 
at  last  to  be  a  part  of  his  home ;  and  though  he  was  ill  and  suffer- 
ing, he  went  there  up  to  the  end  and  worked  there  at  his  favourite 
table,  and  met  the  familiar  faces  that  he  liked  to  see,  and  the 
friendly  silences  as  well  as  the  friendly  greetings  of  his  old  asso- 
ciates. It  was  there  he  met  Mr.  Dickens,  on  that  occasion  of 
which  Mr.^Dickens  himself  has  written,  when  my  father  was 
coming  away  for  the  last  time  from  his  accustomed  haunt. 

It  has  been  truly  said  that  in  life  ideas  are  the  only  facts  that 
last.  Other  things  pass  and  disappear,  but  ideas  grow  and  grow 
in  people's  hearts,  as  time  goes  on  and  men  learn  their  long  lessons, 
and  accept  the  teaching  of  life.  And  so,  perhaps,  the  best  cairn 
or  monument  to  the  memory  of  a  good  man  is  that  one  which  his 
friends  put  up  to  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  As  one  looks  back 
at  the  warm  expressions  at  the  time  of  my  father's  death,  one  feels 
how  much  was  meant  by  them.  Here  is  Charles  Dickens  writing 
from  his  heart,  and  noting  the  little  familiar  things  which  the  mind 
first  turns  to  in  a  bereavement.  "  An  excellent  way  with  boys,"  he 
says  among  the  rest,  and  then  he  goes  on  to  speak  of  other  char- 
acteristics— his  quiet  endurance,  his  unselfish  thoughtfulness  for 
others,  his  munificent  hand.  And  then  come  Mr.  Trollope's  words 
of  affectionate  and  true  feeling.  "  He  carried  his  heart-strings  in  a 
crystal  case,"  he  wrote.  And  there  is  a  record  of  his  saying  as 
he  spoke  of  a  future  life  :  "  If  I  thought  I  should  never  see  old 
Thackeray  again,  I  should  be  a  very  unhappy  man,"  he  cried. 

The  last  words  Sir  John  Millais  wrote  to  me  were  of  my 
father:  "  I  dwell  now  entirely  on  the  past,  as  far  back  as  when  as 
a  boy  I  walked  the  Jersey  lanes  in  spring.  ...  I  follow  on  to  the 
days  of  TroUope  and  your  father,  whom  I  loved."  Newman, 
writing  three  days  after  my  father's  death,  put  his  stone  upon 
the  cairn  and  wrote,  "  His  last  fugitive  pieces  in  the  Cornhill 
were  almost  sermons." 

An  American,  Mr.  Stoddard,  the  author  of  some  touching  lines 
on  my  father's  death,  writing  of  his  work,  has  quoted  a  passage 
from  George  Brimley's  Essays,  which  expresses  something  which 


xxii  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS   DUVAL,  ETC. 

is  true  of  all  good  work  :  "  Thackeray  could  not  have  produced 
'Vanity  Fair'  unless  Eden  had  been  shining  brightly  before  his 
eyes." 

"  Love  is  a  higher  intellectual  exercise  than  hatred,"  my 
father  himself  has  said. 

In  a  letter  to  a  friend  Mr.  Venables  wrote  :  "  I  once  told  him 
that  the  basis  of  his  character  was  religious  sentimentality,  and 
he  gravely  said  that  I  understood  him  perfectly  ;  but,  like  Horace, 
he  gave  warning  that  neither  he  nor  his  tastes,  opinions,  and  feel- 
ings were  to  be  attacked  with  impunity.  His  humorous  pugnac- 
ity subsided  at  once  in  the  presence  of  real  or  apparent  goodness." 

Another  friend,  Sir  Theodore  Martin,  who  was  amongst  the 
first  to  express  a  serious  recognition  of  his  place  in  literature — so 
my  father  himself  felt  and  wrote — concluded  a  review  of  his 
works  in  1853  with  these  words  :  "He  fills  a  large  space  now 
in  the  world's  eye,  and  his  reputation  has  become  a  matter  of 
pride  to  his  country,  .  .  .  that  of  the  only  satirist  who  mingles 
loving-kindness  with  his  sarcasm,  and  charity  and  humility  with 
his  gravest  rebuke."  It  makes  one  proud  to  read  these  words, 
so  manly  and  so  sincere. 

Lord  Houghton's  beautiful  lines  in  the  Cornhill  will  be  re 
membered : — 

"0  gentler  Censor  of  our  age, 
Prime  naaster  of  our  ampler  tongue, 
Whose  word  of  wit  and  generous  page 
Were  never  wroth  except  with  wrong. 
Fielding  without  the  manner's  dross, 
Scott  with  a  spirit's  larger  room, 
What  prelate  deems  th)'  grave  his  loss — 
What  Halifax  erects  thy  tomb? 
But  maybe  he  who  so  could  draw 
The  hidden  great,  the  humble  wise. 
Yielding  with  them  to  God's  good  law, 
Makes  the  Pantheon  where  he  lies." 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

II 
DENIS    DUVAL 

In  my  father's  farewell  circular  to  the  readers  and  contribu- 
tors of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  there  is  mention  of  a  contemplated 
story  whicn  eventually  became  "Denis  Duval,"  although  I  think 
that  when  the  address  was  written,  not  "  Denis  Duval,"  but 
another  history  was  in  his  mind. 

The  address  was  published  in  April  1862,  and  part  of  it  has 
already  been  quoted.  The  editor,  after  announcing  his  resigna- 
tion, concludes  in  the  following  words  : — 

"  I  had  rather  have  a  quiet  life  than  gold  lace  and  epaulets,  and 
deeper  than  ever  did  plummet  sound,  I  fling  my  speaking-trumpet. 
Once  in  a  voyage  to  America,  I  met  a  sea-captain  who  was  passen- 
ger in  a  ship  he  had  formerly  commanded.  No  man  could  be  more 
happy  and  cheerful  than  this.  He  rode  through  the  gale  with  the 
most  perfect  confidence  in  the  ship  and  its  captain  ;  he  surveyed 
the  storm  as  being  another  gentleman's  business ;  and  his  great 
delight  was  to  be  called  at  his  watch,  to  invoke  a  blessing  on  the 
steward  boy  who  woke  him,  and  to  turn  round  in  his  crib  and 
go  to  sleep  again.  Let  my  successor  command  the  Cornhill,  giving 
me  always  a  passage  on  board ;  and  if  the  printer's  boy  rings 
at  my  door  of  an  early  morning,  with  a  message  that  there  are 
three  pages  wanting  or  four  too  much,  I  will  send  out  my 
benediction  to  that  printer's  boy,  and  take  t'other  half-hour's 
doze. 

"Though  editor  no  more,"  continues  my  father,  "I  Lope  long 
to  remain  a  contributor  to  my  friend's  magazine.  I  believe  my 
own  special  readers  will  agree  that  my  books  will  not  suffer  when 
their  author  is  released  from  the  daily  task  of  reading,  accepting, 
refusing,  losing,  and  finding  the  works  of  other  people.  To  say 
'  no '  has  often  cost  me  a  morning's  peace  and  a  day's  work.  I 
tremble  recenti  nietu.  Oh,  those  hours  of  madness  spent  in 
searching  for  Louisa's  lost  lines  to  her  dead  piping  bull-finch,  for 


xxiv  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

Nhoj  Senoj's  mislaid  essay  !  I  tell  them  for  the  last  time  that 
the  late  editor  will  not  be  responsible  for  rejected  communica- 
tions, and  herewith  send  off  the  chair  and  the  great  Cornhill 
Magazine  tin  box,  with  its  load  of  care. 

"  Whilst  the  present  tale  of  '  Philip '  is  passing  through  the 
press,  I  am  preparing  another,  on  which  I  have  worked  at  inter- 
vals for  many  years  past,  and  which  I  hope  to  introduce  in  the 
ensuing  year ;  and  I  have  stipulated  for  the  liberty  of  continu- 
ing the  little  essays  which  have  amused  the  public  and  the 
writer,  and  which  I  purpose  to  contribute  from  time  to  time  to 
the  pages  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine.  W.  M,  T." 

Before  finally  starting  on  the  novel  of  "  Denis  Duval "  he  was 
turning  over  two  stories  in  his  mind.  Of  one  of  these — it  was 
never  written  after  all — we  had  often  heard  him  speak,  and  there 
are  some  notes  which  concern  it  in  the  same  MSS.  volume  which 
contains  those  for  "  Denis  Duval."  The  story  which  was  never 
written  belonged  to  the  days  of  Henry  V.,  and  we  had  seen  him 
reading  for  it  from  time  to  time  in  Froissart  and  Brantome  and 
Monstrelet.  The  one  fact  concerning  it  which  is  vividly  im- 
pressed on  my  mind  is  that  the  hero  was  to  come  into  action 
on  a  cow,  as  the  knights  did  at  Agincourt  when  horses  ran 
sliort. 

The  second  story  was  to  be  shorter  than  the  mediaeval  ro- 
mance, and  to  date  from  1763,  with  highway  robbers  and  sea- 
fights,  and  a  sailor  for  a  hero;  this  was  "Denis  Duval." 

My  father  used  to  talk  a  great  deal  about  it  all  to  us.  Agnes, 
the  heroine,  had  one  or  two  aliases.  She  was  sometimes  Hen- 
riette,  sometimes  Blanche,  but  then  he  said  she  should  be  Agnes 
after  all ;  it  was  an  ugly  name,  but  it  was  convenient  for  the 
working  of  the  story,  and  there  were  two  St.  Agneses.  In  the 
same  way  Denis  himself  was  called  Blaise  for  a  little  time,  and 
the  Duvals  were  called  Merian, 

He  was  anxious  about  this  novel.  lean  remember  his  saying 
that  "  Philip "  had  not  enough  story,  and  that  this  new  book 
must  be  a  success,  if  he  could  make  it  so.  He  used  to  carry 
the  chapters  about  with  him,  and  often  pull  them  out  from  his 
coat  pocket  to  consult. 

He  said  that  it  was  a  superstition  of  his  to  write  at  least  one 


^aA4«- 


cjra 


fUjJU^ 


UOAIk. 


ypt^lcnf^^    cAjLH^u      'n.  V^Uam^i.  i«**5fctwt<^ -C^/H < 

2itl4^  lwr?{-u  b*u^  ol  ctn^nue-  Avuj^i^ ,  ^>l  <^ 

^«rt4«^  ^<rtri»'  <^l^  t**a^  ^vy-aJii  Uj  \/i^c*Ai* 
J-tr^a^     1\u.  <lvi^4/  /:*A  tu  <Va«v  Uwt#  r/i'tt 


L  A  imJUtt.  CiK^ev^u.  .      Gr  H.  «!/(*.  43  , 

H4>  ju*.  aJcr\^\L  lt.t4.^AUAy  cixtic^^  t*xAi<4jL^  jytSuAA/kv^A^  Ut  ^f-^-Uy  ^^trHtunid 
t  krhuiu  It'X'ic^  4  «L/U(  'hA^iti.  u^{h4  CHtt^JtaJA  /^  /u<* /u-|«/t*4#tA  flstfi« 

*^  <  V^«t,  i/ti^A^lAuM.  lu.  ^%JCtkvl.  flu  iiAi  Hf  ^itu-  DcicA'tnMrCi  .  k<n^ 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

line  in  every  day  whether  he  was  ill  or  well.  Only  once,  to  my 
recollection,  did  he  try  to  dictate  some  pages  of  "  Denis  Duval," 
but  he  very  soon  sent  his  secretary  away,  saying  that  he  must 
write  for  himself. 

It  is  in  May  1 863  that  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Ritchie,  the  widow 
of  his  cousin  William  Ritchie,  "  the  gentleman  of  the  long  robe" 
of  the  "  Roundabout  Papers,"  the  friend  and  benefactor  of  so 
many  here  in  England  as  well  as  in  India,  whose  death  at  Cal- 
cutta the  year  before  had  been  so  grea%a  shock :  "  If  I  haven't 
written  to  you  sooner,  be  pleased  to  know  that  for  the  last  ten 
days  I  have  been  almost  non  compos  mentis.  When  I  am  in  la- 
bour with  a  book  I  don't  quite  know  what  happens.  I  sit  for 
hours  before  my  paper,  not  doing  my  book,  but  incapable  of 
doing  anything  else,  and  thinking  upon  that  subject  always, 
waking  with  it,  walking  about  with  it,  and  going  to  bed  with  it. 
Oh,  the  struggles  and  bothers — oh,  the  throbs  and  pains  about 
this  trumpery !" 

There  were  a  good  many  technical  difficulties  in  the  subject 
he  had  taken  up,  and  he  sometimes  said  that  he  should  like  to 
take  a  journey  in  a  man-of-war  so  as  to  learn  all  the  nautical 
phrases.  Mr.  Greenwood's  notes  on  "  Denis  Duval "  will  show 
how  carefully  my  father  got  all  the  details  up. 

One  pleasant  impression  still  in  my  mind  belonging  to  those 
days,  is  that  of  my  father's  return  one  summer's  evening,  pleased 
and  in  good  spirits  from  a  little  visit  he  had  paid  to  Winchel- 
sea  and  Rye.  He  came  home  delighted  with  the  old  places ;  he 
had  seen  the  ancient  gateways  and  sketched  one  of  them,  and 
he  had  seen  the  great  churches  and  the  old  houses,  all  sailing 
inland  from  the  sea.  Winchelsea  was  everything  he  had  hoped 
for,  and  even  better  than  he  expected.  He  was  so  often  ailing 
in  those  latter  days  that  when  he  was  well  and  happy  it  seemed 
to  be  a  general  holiday  in  the  house. 

Another  association  which  I  have  with  **  Denis  Duval  "  is  con- 
nected with  almost  the  last  page  of  the  manuscript.  One  day  he 
came  down  at  luncheon-time  in  great  spirits  and  excitement ;  he 
was  quite  carried  away  by  what  he  had  been  reading  and  writ- 
ing that  morning  concerning  the  splendid  gallantry  of  Captain 
Pearson  of  the  Serapis.  Instead  of  eating  his  luncheon,  he  began 
describing  the  engagement  with  as  much  pride  as  if  he  had  wit- 


xxvi   ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS,  DENIS   DUVAL,  ETC. 

nessed  it,  or  as  if  he  had  had  a  son  serving  on  board.  His  old  friend 
and  neighbour  Admiral  FitzRoy  had  looked  up  the  papers  and 
particulars  and  sent  them  to  him  from  the  Admiralty;  my  father 
followed  them  all  with  something  beyond  interest,  until  he 
seemed  to  be  actually  living  through  the  events  which  laid 
hold  of  his  imagination. 

My  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Warre  Cornish,  who  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  child  in  those  days,  has  written  down  some  of  her  remi- 
niscences of  that  time. 

"Out  of  my  girlish  remembrance  of  visits  at  Palace  Green," 
she  writes,  "the  impression  made  by  the  creation  of  'Denis 
Duval '  remains  extraordinarily  clear.  It  was  in  the  summer  of 
1863,  and  I  believe  that  Mr.  Thackeray  was  just  then  very  happy, 
finding  liimself  once  more,  after  a  long  interval,  in  the  full  vein 
of  historical  romance.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  this  at  the  time, 
only  that  the  atmosphere  of  '  Denis  Duval '  permeated  every- 
tliing.  The  beautiful  red  house  shaded  by  tall  elms,  on  Palace 
Green;  the  bits  of  antique  plate,  china,  and  furniture,  collected 
by  Mr.  Thackeray,  when  it  was  easier  than  it  is  now,  to  make 
genuine  last-century  purchases,  '  brand  new  and  intensely  old ' 
as  he  would  describe  some  Louis  XVI.  clock  or  gueridon  just 
brought  home — all  these  old-world  things  seemed  to  me  a  part 
of  the  spell.  The  story  progressed  day  by  day,  and  reached  us 
through  his  talk  with  his  daughters,  and  with  my  sister  and  my- 
self, whose  father  he  had  loved.  The  great  world  of  London 
came  and  went  past  the  quiet  green  precincts,  and  he  went  to 
the  great  world  or  came  from  it.  It  was  the  July  season,  and 
Mr.  Thackeray's  constant  presence  among  a  small  band  of  his 
own  and  his  "daughters'  friends — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Collins,  Herman 
Merivale  and  his  sister,  Mrs.  Williams  Freeman,  Frederick  Walk- 
er, and  others — left  an  indescribably  full  impression.  But  every 
day  one  received  a  clearer  idea  of  the  laborious  daily  task ;  the 
initiation  behind  the  scenes  into  the  delightful  story  which  was 
coming  into  being  was  full,  not  only  of  wonder  and  charm,  but 
of  the  serious  aspect  of  work  in  Mr.  Thackeray's  house. 

"  I  remember  when  the  story  of  the  poor  Countess  of  Saverne 
absorbed  him.  'The  Countess  is  growing  very  mad,'  he  said 
one  day;  '  last  night  St.  Sebastian  appeared  to  her  stuck  all  over 
with   arrows  —  lookinc;  like  a  fricandeau,''   he    added    gravely. 


\ftA*iJi  vvu^  ^t^  ^_ 


VkW  tOtiUMH)  pnj  *Wu^ 


4      Afl 
3^  *)^* 

e^UA.  c<fl*   uix.  A  Am^tu  « 

I K  iMb«  |i4A4^  «/(Cu|  I, 


L  iu'tW-*  A.  Mln*  t>^«  .  lu.  jLkIl.  ^vJUiM-  M^Jt. 
\    ^  4  ^  l>\  P^m^*^  ' 


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*     •         .  '  t 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

though  with  a  mock  shudder.  And  then  he  would  sketch  for 
us  what  we  read  afterwards,  that  Count  de  Saverne  was  heart- 
broken about  his  wife's  flight  with  the  little  Agnes ;  and  one 
gathered  the  story  of  the  duel  with  the  mysterious  Count  de  la 
Motte,  who  had  been  brought  up  as  a  priest.  The  Count  de 
Saverne  was  to  be  killed,  and  round  his  neck  was  to  be  found 
within  his  shirt  a  little  shoe  hanging  by  a  string. 
"  'You  know.  Papa,  Victor  Hugo  has  got  a  shoe.' 
"  '  So  he  has  !  Hugo  has  a  magnificent  shoe.  It  must  be  some- 
thing else.     What  do  babies  wear?' 

"  We  could  not  think  of  anything  but  the  cap,  but  we  regretted 
it,  and  agreed  that  nothing  was  so  pathetic  as  a  shoe. 

"The  inspiration  sometimes  had  to  be  waited  for  and  caught 
at  the  flood.  The  carriage  came  to  the  door  and  waited,  waited 
an  hour,  an  hour  and  a  half,  two  hours.  Mr.  Thackeray  wrote 
on.  His  daughters  only  said  what  a  good  thing  it  was  that 
every  ten  minutes  made  a  page  of  Papa's  handwriting.  At 
last  he  came,  and  got  into  the  carriage  with  us,  all  in  the  best  of 
spirits.  As  we  drove  towards  Wimbledon  or  Richmond  he 
would  read  evenj  name  on  the  small  shops  as  we  passed ;  he 
wanted  Christian  names  for  certain  smugglers  to  come  into  the 
story.  He  commented  on  all  the  names.  Every  minute  seemed 
brimful  in  his  society;  one  never  thinks,  even  when  remember- 
ing what  followed,  of  incompletion. 

"  At  a  garden  party  I  have  a  recollection  of  a  man  saying  to 
him,  '  It  is  said,  Thackeray,  of  you,  that  you  have  body  enough 
for  two  and  soul  enough  for  three.  .  .  .' 

" '  Soul  enough  for  one  I  hope — I  can  but  hope,^  he  replied 
gravely. 

"  One  other  recollection  of  those  working  days  of  his  is  very 
vivid.  Besides  writing  '  Denis  Duval '  and  the  '  Roundabout 
Papers,'  he  was  receiving  calls  for  articles  which  he  was  often 
indisposed  to  write — once  it  was  a  critique  of  the  sketches  col- 
lected and  exhibited  after  Cruikshank's  death.  He  accepted  the 
task,  declaring  he  would  fail. 

"  '  If  I  were  you.  Papa,  I  would  write  all  round  the  subject  and 
say  as  little  as  possible  about  it.' 

"  This  was  the  quiet  voice  of  his  youngest  daughter. 

♦'  'Thank  you,  my  dear,'  he  said,  and  I  can  see  him  pacing  the 


xxviii  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

room  impatiently  and  her  sitting  calmly  by — the  most  reposeful, 
the  most  observant  of  women,  then  a  girl  of  twenty,  with  shin- 
ing bronze  hair  and  bright  rosy  cheeks ;  she  was  ever  reserved, 
but  with  him  in  perfect  sympathy  of  taste  and  feeling." 


My  father's  last  letter  to  Dr.  John  Brown,  with  whom  my 
sister  was  staying  in  Edinburgh  that  autumn,  touches  on  "  Denis 
Duval "  :— 

"Palace  Grees,  September  23,  1863. 

"  My  dear  J.  B., — I  am  very  glad  you  like  my  little  Min ; 
with  her  and  her  sister  I  have  led  such  a  happy  life  that  I  am 
afraid  almost  as  I  think  of  it  lest  any  accident  should  disturb 
it.  .  .  .  We  three  get  on  so  comfortably  together  that  the  house 
is  not  the  house  when  one  is  away. 

"  I  have  done  no  work  for  a  whole  year,  and  must  now  set  to 
at  this  stale  old  desk,  or  there  will  be  no  beef  and  mutton — I  have 
spent  too  much  money  on  this  fine  house  one  way  or  t'other,  be- 
sides gimcracks,  china,  plate,  the  deuce  knows  what.  I  am  not  in 
debt,  thank  my  stars,  but  instead  of  writing  to  you,  why  am  I  not 
writing  the  history  of  Denis  Duval,  Esq.,  Admiral  of  the  White 
Squadron  ?  Because  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  sea  and 
seamen,  and  get  brought  up  by  my  ignorance  every  other  page. 

*' Good-bye,  my  dear  J.  B.  My  love  to  the  children. — Your 
grateful  old  friend,  W.  M.  T." 

There  is  a  chapter  of  "Denis  Duval"  hitherto  not  printed,  in 
which  my  father  says,  "Over  the  back  of  the  armchair  in  which 
I  sit,  I  remember,  as  a  boy,  how  there  used  to  hang  a  little  slim, 
powdered  queue  whi^h  dear  old  Doctor  C.  wore."  (Doctor  C.  was 
Doctor  Carmichael-Smyth.)  "His  son  inherited  the  chair;  he 
also  has  passed  away.  As  I  lean  in  the  comfortable  arms  (not 
unmindful  that  the  generation  to  which  I  belong  is  the  next  to 
be  called)  I  hold  on  to  the  past  which  was  present  once  to  my 
faithful  old  study  companion.  Burke  has  sat  in  the  chair,  and 
1  remember  having  heard  the  owner  talk  of  Garrick,  whom  he 
knew.  His  own  sons  took  honourable  parts  in  the  great  Euro- 
pean and  Asian  wars  at  the  commencement  of  the  century. 
Here,  then,  their  father   has   sat,  with  moist   eyes   and  heart, 


DENIS    AND    DR.  BARNARD. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

thankful  to  the  Father  of  all,  reading  the  young  men's  affec- 
tionate letters." 

We  have  the  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  the  old  chair  described  in 
the  suppressed  chapter.  It  is  drawn  on  the  back  of  one  of  the 
pages  of  the  manuscript  of  "  Denis  Duval "  ;  which  manuscript 
a  friend  brought  us,  who  had  discovered  it  long  after  my  father's 
death,  carefully  put  away  and  forgotten. 

The  only  picture  of  "  Denis  Duval "  by  my  father  is  the  little 
water-colour  sketch  here  given.  Poor  Denis  is  flying  from  his  old 
grandfather  the  perruquier's  blows  to  the  protection  of  Dr.Barnard. 
There  is  another  water-colour  sketch  done  at  the  same  time  by 
Frederick  Walker,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  George  Smith,  repre- 
senting "  little  Denis  dancing  and  singing  before  the  navy  gentle- 
men" ;  the  design  for  this  was  my  father's,  and  it  is  referred  to 
in  the  life  of  Frederick  Walker  as  "  the  last  drawing  from  Mr. 
Thackeray's  hand."  Mr.  Walker  reproduced  it  for  the  Cornhill 
Magazine.  And  Mr.  Marks  tells  us  that  of  the  four  illustrations 
for  "  Denis  Duval,"  Walker  afterwards  reproduced  two  in  water- 
colour — "  Evidence  for  the  Defence,"  and  "  Denis's  Valet."  They 
both  belong  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Smith.  Walker's  water- 
colour  sketches  are  all  charming,  specially  that  one  of  the  two 
boys  looking  at  the  pistol  with  the  box  standing  open  before 
them.  In  the  picture  of  Denis,  the  figure  of  the  boy  is  delight- 
ful, with  the  bel  air,  as  Madame  de  Sevigne  calls  it,  of  youth 
and  nature ;  but  the  drawing  of  the  mother  does  not  in  the 
least  represent  the  grim  and  violent  personage  described  in  the 
text. 

Among  other  critics,  Leslie  Stephen,  writing  of  "  Denis  Duval," 
has  spoken  "  of  the  harmonious  unfinished  picture  that  might 
have  been  worthy  to  be  put  beside  Esmond,"  and,  indeed,  as  one 
reads  the  notes  one  realises  what  a  complete  historical  impression 
the  book  should  have  come  to  be.*  The  lines  laid  by  so  sure  a 
hand,  seem  to  spread  out  into  a  wider  and  more  comprehensive 
horizon ;  it  is  a  story  of  action  rather  than  of  thought,  with  the 
strange  heroic  figures  of  the  last  century  for  heroes,  warm-hearted, 
heavy-handed.     Perhaps  the  writer  was  not  uninfluenced  by  his 

*  Charles  Dickens  wrote,  "  In  respect  of  earnest  feeling,  far-seeing  pur- 
pose, character,  incident,  and  a  certain  loving  picturesqueness  blending  the 
whole,  I  believe  it  to  be  much  the  beat  of  all  his  works." 


XXX  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

early  associations  with  a  family  of  soldiers  and  their  ways  and 
talk.  He  always  had  the  keenest  interest  in  naval  and  military 
things. 

Since  his  death  there  has  been  an  immense  revival  of  apprecia- 
tion of  those  warlike  times ;  of  the  days  of  Nelson,  when  the  great 
fleets  were  sweeping  the  high  seas.  Denis  came  at  the  head  of 
those  stirring,  honest,  and  delightful  heroes  of  Stevenson  and 
others — seamen  belonging  to  a  splendid  day,  who  did  not  split 
hairs,  who  still  clung  to  their  pig-tails,  who  fought  and  bled, 
somewhat  haphazard  perhaps,  but  who  from  early  training  or 
from  natural  bent  made  more  often  for  right  than  for  wrong. 

Some  chapters  of  the  wonderful  histories  of  Nelson  and  his 
shipmates,  lately  published,  read  at  times  like  a  page  out  of 
"  Denis  Duval." 

Take  Colonel  Drinkwater's  story  as  it  is  quoted  in  Mahan's 
book — Colonel  Drinkwater,  who  met  Nelson  shortly  before  the 
battle  of  Camperdown, which  was  fought  on  the  11th  of  October 
1797,  when  Nelson  was  not  yet  quite  recovered  from  his  terrible 
wound. 

"  One  of  the  first  questions  Mr.  Nelson  put  to  me  was  whether 
I  had  been  at  the  Admiralty.  I  told  him  there  was  a  rumour 
that  the  British  fleet  had  been  engaged  with  that  of  Holland. 
He  started  up  in  his  peculiar  energetic  manner,  notwithstanding 
Lady  Nelson's  attempt  to  quiet  him,  and  stretching  out  his  un- 
wounded  arm,  '  Drinkwater,'  said  he,  '  I  would  give  this  other 
arm  to  be  with  Duncan  at  this  moment.'  So  unconquerable 
was  the  spirit  of  the  man,  and  so  intense  his  eagerness  to  give 
every  instant  of  his  life  to  the  service." 

Something  of  the  spirit  of  this  absorption  in  life's  work,  rather 
than  in  life's  continuance,  seems  in  some  measure  to  animate  all 
master  spirits  and  great  men,  whether  warriors,  or  teachers,  or 
administrators,  or  artists.  Each  one  seems  to  be  the  servant 
of  some  higher  unknown  rule;  to  be  in  part  the  expression 
of  that  which  is  beyond  all  speech.  My  father  was  not  alone 
among  his  companions  to  live  and  teach  and  work  in  obedience 
to  a  law  which  is  stronger  for  great  men  than  for  smaller  ones. 

Lesser  men  in  turn  are  not  slow  to  do  justice  to  those  they 
trust,  and  whose  mission  they  recognise. 


INTRODUCTION 


XXXI 


Only  a  few  days  before  his  death  my  father  came  home  one 
afternoon  saying  that  he  could  not  get  accustomed  to  the  number 
of  people  whom  he  did  not  know,  who  seemed  to  know  him  in 
the  street,  and  took  off  their  hats  as  he  went  along.  His  figure 
was  so  remarkable,  and  so  little  to  be  passed  over,  that  no  wonder 
people  recognised  him  as  they  recognised  Tennyson  or  Carlyle, 
or  any  other  of  the  well-known  characters  of  those  days. 


7    '■ 


THREE    SEAMEN. 


Except  for  the  spontaneous  expression  of  regard  from  his 
readers,  my  father  never  received  any  of  those  other  recognitions 
or  marks  of  favour  which  are  more  common  now  than  they  were 
then.  The  Benchers  of  the  Middle  Temple  sent  him  a  message 
a  few  days  before  he  died,  which  pleased  him,  that  they  were 
about  to  elect  him  a  Bencher,  but  his  name  was  never  actually 
on  the  list. 


One  bright  afternoon  in  December  1863  we  drove  with  him 
to  the  Temple.  Our  friend  Lady  Colvile  came  with  us,  and  we 
went  through  the  Park  to  pick  him  up  at  the  Athenaeum,  and 


xxxii  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

then  on  to  the  Temple  church,  where  the  service  was  going  on. 
The  anthem  was  "Rejoice,  and  again  I  say  unto  you,  rejoice," 
and  afterwards  the  evening  hymn  was  sung.  When  we  came  out 
from  the  inner  aisle,  he  was  waiting  for  us,  standing  quite  still 
with  his  back  turned.  He  began  to  chant  the  anthem  in  an  under- 
tone, and  then  he  praised  the  evening  hymn, which  he  always  liked ; 
he  said  it  was  simple  and  unaffected,  and  entirely  to  the  purpose, 
expressing  just  what  was  needful  and  no  more.  We  walked  with 
him  along  the  Terrace  and  down  some  steps  into  the  Garden.  For 
a  little  while  longer  the  sky  was  very  bright  and  red,  then  the 
twilight  began,  and  we  went  in  to  tea  with  Herman  Merivale, 
who  was  expecting  us  in  his  rooms,  up  some  twisting  stairs. 
My  father  laughed  and  was  in  good  spirits,  and  looked  at  the 
pictures  upon  the  walls.  Perhaps  it  all  reminded  him  of  his 
own  Temple  days — "  Ah,  happy  rooms,  bright  rooms,  rooms 
near  the  sky,"  he  says  in  "  Philip,"  "  to  remember  you  is  to  be 
young  again." 

My  father's  last  visit  to  Charterhouse,  on  Founder's  Day,  and 
the  enthusiastic  welcome  the  boys  gave  him  as  he  walked  up  the 
old  hall,  has  often  been  alluded  to.  "  C.H,,  December  12th,"  is 
almost  the  last  entry  in  his  diary.  A  letter  from  the  Rev. 
Alfred  Gatty,  another  old  Carthusian,  reminds  rae  that  my 
father,  as  he  himself  did,  acted  as  steward  on  this  occasion.* 

A  day  or  two  before  his  death  I  went  out  driving  in  the  twilight 
with  my  father.  We  met  Mr.  Carlyle  walking  along  the  path  by 
the  Serpentine,  and  my  father  began  to  wave  to  him — "a  great 
shower  of  salutations,"  Carlyle  said  in  after  days,  speaking  of  that 

*  The  year  before,  the  author  of  "The  Newcomes"  had  also  dined  at 
Charterhouse,  and  Professor  Jebh,  who  was  present,  writes  in  reply  to  a 
letter  of  mine,  many  years  afterwards : — 

"  After  the  Charterhouse  dinner  I  went  with  another  young  Cambridge 
man  to  Evans's,  in  Covent  Garden.  Presently  your  father  came  in.  He 
recognised  us  as  having  been  at  the  dinner,  and  sat  down  at  the  table  where 
we  were.  I  remember  feeling  very  shy  at  first,  and  also  that  the  feeling  wore 
ofE  as  he  talked.  I  noticed  that  he  spoke  warmly  of  Longfellow,  apropos  of 
a  reference  made  by  one  of  us  to  those  lines  from  'Hyperion,'  'Many  a 
year  is  in  its  grave.'  Before  we  separated  he  asked  us  to  dine  with  him  the 
next  day  at  Palace  Green." 

I  can  also  recall  my  father's  interest  in  the  young  man,  the  Senior  Classic 
that  year  at  Cambridge,  who  had  once  been  Captain  of  Charterhouse  School. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

last  meeting,  with  the  strange  echo  of  tenderness  in  his  grave 
tones  that  those  who  loved  him  can  remember. 

It  was  on  the  l7th  of  December  1863  that  this  last  letter 
about  his  work  was  written  : — 

"Palace  Green. 

"  Dear  Smith, — I  was  just  going  to  be  taken  prisoner  by- 
Paul  Jones  when  I  had  to  come  to  bed.  If  I  could  get  a  month's 
ease  I  could  finish  the  eight  numbers  handsomely  with  the  mar- 
riage of  Denis  and  Agnes,  after  the  capture  of  Toulon  by  the 
English.  '  The  Course  of  True  Love '  I  thought  of  as  a  pretty 
name.  .  .  . 

"  Yesterday  burglars  entered  our  house  and  robbed  my  poor 
mother  and  girls  of  watches,  trinkets,  diamonds — all  my  little 
presents,  lockets,  bracelets,  to  poor  Annie  since  she  was  fifteen." 

He  had  no  real  illness,  but  he  flagged  all  that  last  week  and 
was  more  at  home  than  usual.  An  old  friend  who  came  to  see 
us  told  me  that  my  father  took  him  upstairs  to  his  room  to  show 
him  some  book,  and  he  noticed  that  he  was  quite  tired  and  out 
of  breath  with  the  one  flight  of  stairs. 

He  had  so  often  been  ill  and  rallied,  that  my  sister  and  I  clung 
to  this  hope ;  but  our  grandmother  was  more  anxious  than  we 
were. 

He  was  ill  one  morning  and  he  sent  for  me  to  give  me  some 
directions,  and  to  tell  me  to  write  some  notes.  He  had  the 
Times  upon  his  bed.  This  was  two  days  before  Christmas.  He 
died  suddenly  in  the  early  morning  of  Christmas  Eve,  Decem- 
ber 24,  1863. 

He  was  not  sorry  to  go ;  only  a  day  or  two  before  he  had 
said  so. 

Even  when  he  was  comparatively  well  and  strong,  he  had  writ- 
ten to  his  mother :  "  Providence  which  poor  M.  impugns,  is  very 
tolerably  kind  to  me.  M.  didn't  seem  to  be  aware  that  she  had  used 
such  rebellious  expressions  when  I  took  her  to  task.  I  asked  her 
why  the  natural  laws  were  to  be  interrupted  in  my  particular  case? 
Did  Heaven  send  the  little  boys  out  of  the  shop  to  knock  you 
down  and  give  you  a  hundred  days  of  pain,  and  years  of  lameness? 
Was  it  specially  concerned  in  punishing,  chastising,  trying,  bless- 
ing, smashing,  saving,  those  Jews  who  were  under  the  Tower  of 


xxxiv  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS,  DENIS  DUVAL,  ETC. 

Siloam  when  it  fell?  A  brick  may  have  knocked  a  just  man's 
brains  out,  and  a  beam  fallen  so  as  to  protect  a  scoundrel  who 
happened  to  be  standing  under.  The  bricks  and  beams  fell  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  which  regulate  bricks  in  tumbling.  So  with 
our  diseases — we  die  because  we  are  born  ;  we  decay  because  we 
grow.  I  have  a  right  to  say,  '  O  Father,  give  me  submission  to 
bear  cheerfully  (if  possible)  and  patiently  my  sufferings  ;'  but  I 
can't  request  any  special  change  in  my  behalf  from  the  ordinary 
processes,  or  see  any  special  Divine  animus  superintending  my 
illnesses  or  wellnesses.  Those  people  seem  to  me  presumptuous 
who  are  for  ever  dragging  the  Awful  Divinity  into  a  participa- 
tion with  their  private  concerns.  In  health,  disease,  birth,  life, 
death,  here,  hereafter,  I  am  the  subject  and  creature.  He  lifts 
me  up  and  sets  me  down  certainly — so  He  orders  my  beard  to 
grow.  Yonder  on  iny  table  in  the  next  room  is  a  number  of  the 
'Earthen  Vessel' — Brother  Jones  writes  of  Brother  Brown  how 
preciously  he  has  been  dealt  with :  Brown  has  been  blessed  by 
an  illness ;  he  has  had  the  blessing  of  getting  better ;  he  has 
relapsed,  and  finally  has  the  blessing  of  being  called  out  of  the 
world  altogether.  I  don't  differ  with  Brown  essentially — only 
in  the  compliments,  as  it  were,  which  he  thinks  it  is  proper  to 
be  for  ever  paying.  I  am  well:  Amen.  I  am  ill:  Amen.  I  die: 
Amen  always.  I  can't  say  that  having  a  tooth  out  is  a  blessing — 
is  a  punishment  for  my  sins.     I  say  it's  having  a  tooth  out." 

Elsewhere  he  says :  "  I  must  tell  you  the  truth,  as  I  believe  it 
in  opposition  to  what  I  consider  to  be  erroneous;  and  when  I 
was  going  to  die,  as  I  thought  I  was  one  night,  I  was  as  easy  in 
mind,  and  as  trustful  of  God  and  as  confident  in  His  wisdom 
and  mei'cy,  as  St.  Augustin,  or  St.  Teresa,  or  Lady  Huntingdon, 
or  the  Rev.  Csesar  Malan — I  mean  any  Churchman  high  or  low, 
and  so  no  more  about  it." 

And  again :  "  As  you  and  I  send  for  our  children,  meaning 
them  only  love  and  kindness,  how  much  more  Pater  Noster  " — 
thus  he  wrote  to  a  friend  in  America. 

W.  M.  Thackeray  to  Mrs.  Procter. 

"Edinburgh,  November,  26,  1856. 
"...  I  only  saw  through  an  old  number  of  the  Illustrated 
London  News  what  had  happened  in  your  house,  and  this  very 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

afternoon  as  I  came  through  the  snow  from  Glasgow  was  thinking 
shall  I  write  now  or  later  ? — later  I  had  determined  it  should  be, 
but  your  little  note  seems  to  say  otherwise,  and  under  the  two 
or  three  lines  about  Mrs.  Reach  I  read  :  Why  as  a  friend  do  you 
show  no  mark  of  sympathy  at  a  time  when  friendship  ought  to 
give  it  ? — I  don't  know,  I  am  not  sorry  for  most  people,  certainly 
not  for  those  old  and  in  pain,  for  whom  sleep  must  be  a  consoler 
after  the  fitful  fever.  I  thought  when  I  read  the  news,  how  very 
lately  I  had  tried  to  give  courage  to  my  own  mother,who  lacked 
it,  with  an  account  of  Mrs.  Montagu's  wonderful  endurance  and 
self-abnegation.  It  was  so  kind  of  her  to  be  courageous  at  that 
time,  and  spare  grief  to  you  all.  I  remember  whom  you  told 
me,  of  all  others  she  had  lost,  she  wanted  to  see.  Have  these 
two  met  in  yonder  vast  next  world  ?  When  we  talked  about  it 
last,  I  said  I  thought  it  seemed  lonely  there.  Thinking  of  it  is 
thinking  of  God  inscrutable,  immeasurable,  endless,  beginning- 
less,  supreme,  awfully  solitary.  Little  children  step  off  this  earth 
into  the  infinite  and  we  tear  our  hearts  out  over  their  sweet  cold 
hands  and  smiling  faces,  that  drop  indifferent  when  you  cease 
holding  them,  and  smile  as  the  lid  is  closing  over  them.  I  don't 
think  we  deplore  the  old  who  have  had  enough  of  living  and 
striving  and  have  buried  so  many  others,  and  must  be  weary  of 
living — it  seems  time  for  them  to  go — for  where's  the  pleasure 
of  staying  when  the  feast  is  over,  and  the  flowers  withered,  and 
the  guests  gone  ?  Isn't  it  better  to  blow  the  light  out  than  sit 
on  among  the  broken  meats  and  collapsed  jellies  and  vapid  heel- 
taps ?  I  go — to  what  I  don't  know — but  to  God's  next  world, 
which  is  His  and  He  made  it.  One  paces  up  and  down  the 
shore  yet  awhile — and  looks  towards  the  unknown  ocean,  and 
thinks  of  the  traveller  whose  boat  sailed  yesterday.  Those  we 
love  can  but  walk  down  to  the  pier  with  us — the  voyage  we 
must  make  alone.  Except  for  the  young  or  very  happy,  I  can't 
say  I  am  sorry  for  any  one  who  dies." 

Whenever  my  father  wrote  of  death  it  was  with  peaceful 
encouragement  and  good-will,  and  now  with  his  own  words  it 
seems  fitting  to  end  these  notes  of  his  dear  life. 


A.  I.  R. 


XXX vi  UNPUBLISHED  CHAPTER  OF  "DENIS  DUVAL" 


UNPUBLISHED    CHAPTER    OF 
"DENIS    DUVAL." 

Over  the  back  of  the  arm-chair  in  which  I  sit,  I  remember  as 
a  boy  how  there  used  to  hang  a  little,  slim,  powdered  queue 
which  dear  old  Dr.  C.  wore.  His  son  inherited  the  chair ;  he 
also  has  passed  away.  As  I  lean  back  in  the  comfortable  arms 
(not  unmindful  that  the  generation  to  which  I  belong  is  the  next 
to  be  called)  I  hold  on  to  the  past  which  was  present  once  to 
my  study  companion.  Burke  has  sat  in  the  chair,  and  I  remem- 
ber having  heard  the  owner  talk  of  Garrick,  whom  he  knew — 
his  own  sons  took  honourable  part  in  the  great  European  and 
Asian  wars  at  the  commencement  of  the  century;  here  their 
father  has  sat  with  moist  eyes,  and  heart  thankful  to  the  Father 
of  all,  reading  the  affectionate  letters  from  the  brave  young  men 
who  told  of  Bhurtpore  and  Delhi,  of  Bergen-op-Zoora  and  Water- 
loo. Good  readers,  if  you  will  listen  to  a  story  of  old  times,  1 
will  relate  one  which  must  have  come  to  pass  when  this  old  chair 
was  new. 

When  the  old  chair  was  some  five -and -forty  years  younger 
than  it  is  to-day,  some  of  the  people  were  yet  alive  whose  ad- 
ventures and  characters  we  shall  try  to  depict.  The  two  chief 
personages  whom  our  story  exhibits  lived  in  comfort  and  opu- 
lence in  a  little  old  town  of  Fairport,  in  Hampshire,  where,  dur- 
ing and  after  the  great  European  war,  the  society  was  mainly 
composed  of  wives,  widows,  and  daughters  of  his  Majesty's  navy. 
Portraits  of  gentlemen  in  red  coats  and  white  facings  hung  in 
most  of  the  parlours.  Pictures  of  shipwrecks  and  naval  combats 
were  to  be  seen  in  almost  all  drawing-rooms,  I  think  the  two 
prints  representing  the  famous  action  between  the  Java  and  the 
Constitution  were  the  most  modern  works  of  art  to  be  seen  at 
Fairport,  and,  you  know,  that  battle  was  fought  the  year  before 
Waterloo.     A  sedan-chair  or  two  still  existed  in  the  place,  and 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

took  out  the  good  ladies  to  tea  on  rainy  evenings.  Dinner  was 
at  three  or  four  o'clock ;  home-made  wines,  by  some  young  pal- 
ates thought  delicious,  were  not  uncommonly  served  at  dessert ; 
at  six  appeared  tea,  and  then  came  cards,  quadrille,  and  whist 
until  eleven,  when  a  neat  little  supper  termiuated  the  evening's 
mild  amusement.  Betty  and  Mary  arrived  with  the  shawls, 
clogs,  and  lantern ;  and  the  good  ladies  went  to  rest,  to  rise  the 
next  morning  for  just  such  another  day's  gossip,  business,  and 
pleasure.  There  were  scarcely  any  men  in  the  Fairport  society. 
There  were  many  widows  and  elderly  spinsters,  daughters  of 
deceased  Commodores  and  Captains.  It  was  not  certainly  an 
intellectual  society,  very  few  books  were  read :  indeed,  books 
were  not  considered  fit  furniture  for  ladies'  bedrooms.  I  don't 
know  how  many  families  would  club  together  to  take  in  the 
Portsmouth  paper.  There  was  plenty  of  beautiful  old  china 
which  the  dear  old  ladies  delicately  washed  and  polished  after 
tea.  I  can  see  one  of  them  now  with  one  of  the  kindest  and 
sweetest  faces  in  the  world,  which  beams  and  nods  from  the 
parlour  window  as  the  London  coach  pulls  up  at  the  garden 
gate,  with  a  little  boy  from  school  on  the  first  delightful  day 
of  the  Midsummer  holiday. 

Our  cottage  was  called  Rose  Cottage ;  I  wonder  do  the  roses 
still  clamber  round  the  porch.  It  was  quite  a  modest  little  cot- 
tage, but  next  door  was  Laurel  House,  the  residence  of  Madame 
Admiral  Duval.  A  comfortable  brick-built  mansion,  with  bow- 
windows  on  each  side  of  the  door,  and  cedars  and  evergreens 
on  the  lawn.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  times  have  their 
shadows  been  cast  upon  the  grass  since  their  mistress  and  mas- 
ter beheld  their  dark  verdure. 

I  place  the  mistress  first,  just  as  Madame  Duval  was  the  first 
in  rank  of  the  good  couple.  If  she  were  to  appear  and  walk 
down  Fairport  High  Street  now,  how  the  children  would  won- 
der 1  Madame  Duval  used  always  to  wear  a  dress  of  grey  figured- 
silk,  with  sleeves  ruffled  at  the  elbow,  and  mittens  of  black  lace  ; 
she  walked  on  the  prettiest  little  velvet  high-heeled  shoes,  bear- 
ing a  tortoise-shell  cane  before  her,  which  she  held  daintily  be- 
tween thumb  and  finger.  She  carried  a  snuff-box  and  a  tooth- 
pick, and  used  both  with  a  perfect  grace.  What  would  you  say 
nowadays  to  a  duchess  with  a  tooth-pick  case  and  a  snuff-box. 


xxxviii  UNPUBLISHED  CHAPTER  OF  "DENIS  DUVAL" 


CAPTAIN    BECHER,    R.N. 


MRS.    BECHEK. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

Madame  Duval's  had  been  given  by  Count  de  Gras  to  her  hus- 
band, Lieutenant  Duval,  who  acted  as  the  Count's  interpreter  on 
board  the ,  of  which  M.  Duval  was  lieutenant.  After  Rod- 
ney's famous  victory  forty  years  ago,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
speak,  Madame's  hair  was  as  white  as  snow  ;  but  in  her  picture, 
as  I  have  seen  it,  in  a  dress  of  white  muslin  sprigged  with  gold, 
the  locks  were  as  black  as  jay's  wings.  It  used  to  hang  in  her 
dining-room  between  the  portraits  of  her  son,  who  died  early, 
and  of  her  husband  in  his  uniform  of  blue  and  white,  with  a 
ruffled  hand  in  his  waistcoat,  and  a  smile  on  his  broad  kind 
face.*  Madame  Duval  appeared  very  seldom,  and  at  Fairport 
evening  parties,  you  see,  there  were  differences — many  quarrels 
and  feuds  among  the  dear  old  people  at  Fairport.  Questions  of 
social  precedence  were  debated  with  much  acrimony,  and  some- 
times with  actual  violence.  I  remember  a  dreadful  to-do,  for 
instance,  one  day,  when  my  grand-aunt  Tomlinson,  a  doctor  of 
divinity's  lady,  said  she  would  never  consent  to  leave  a  room 
after  Mrs.  Sawyer,  who  was  the  wife  of  a  medical  man.  The 
two,  I  fear,  had  a  scuffle  in  the  hall  on  their  way  to  the  tea- 
room. Ah,  dear  grand-aunt  Tomlinson,  the  question  between 
you  and  Mrs.  S.  is  buried  under  the  grass  now,  and  the  impartial 
daisies  cover  you  both  1 

*  My  father  once  made  a  rough  sketch  of  these  two  paintings,  which  he 
lent  to  Mr.  FitzGerald,  aud  which  we  give  ou  opposite  page. 


THE 
WOLYES   AND   THE   LAMB 


Vol.  XXII. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONjE 

Mr.  Horace  Milliken,  a  Widower,  a  wealthy  City  Merchant, 

George  Milliken,  a  Child,  his  Son. 

Captain  Touchit,  his  Friend. 

Clarence  Kicklebury,  Brother-  to  MiUiken's  late  Wife. 

John  Howell,  M.'s  Butler  and  confidential  Servant. 

Charles  Page,  Foot-hoy. 

BULKELEY,  Lady  Kicklebury'' s  Servant. 

Mr.  Bonnington. 

Coachman\Cabrtian ;  a  Bluccoat  Boy,  another  Boy  {.Mrs.  Prior's  Sons). 

Lady  Kicklebury,  Mother-in-law  to  Milliken. 

Mrs.  Bonnington,  Milliken  s  Mother  {married  again). 

Mrs.  Prior. 

Miss  Prior,  her  Daughter,  Governess  to  MiUiken's  Children. 

Arabella  Milliken,  a  Child. 

Mary  Barlow,  Schoolroom  Maid. 

A  grown-up  Girl  and  Child  of  Mrs.  Prior's,  Lady  K.'s  Maid,  Cook. 


THE 

WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

ACT   I 

Scene. — Milliken's  Villa  at  Richmond;  two  drarving -rooms 
opening  into  07ie  another.  The  late  Mrs.  Milliken's  ^jor- 
trait  over  the  mantelpiece  ;  book-cases,  ivriting-tables,  priano, 
newspapers,  a  handsomely  Jurnished  saloon.  The  back  room 
opens,  ivith  very  large  tvindoivs,  on  the  laivn  and  ])leasnre- 
ground  ;  gate,  and  wall — over  which  the  heads  of  a  cab  and 
a  carriage  are  seen,  as  persons  arrive.  Fruit,  and  a  ladder 
on  the  tvalls.  A  door  to  the  dining-room,  another  to  the 
sleeping  ajjartments,  &c. 

JOHN.  Everybody  out ;  governor  in  the  City  ;  governess  (heigh- 
ho  !)  walking  in  the  Park  with  the  children ;  Ladyship  gone  out 
in  the  carriage.  Let's  sit  down  and  have  a  look  at  the  papers. 
Buttons  !  fetch  the  Morning  Post  out  of  Lady  Kicklebury's  room. 
Where's  the  Daily  Netvs,  sir? 

Page.  Think  it's  in  Milliken's  room. 

John.  Milliken !  you  scoundrel  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
Milliken  ?  Speak  of  your  employer  as  your  governor  if  you  like  ; 
but  not  as  simple  Milliken.  Confound  your  impudence  !  you'll  be 
calling  me  Howell  next. 

Page.  Well !  I  didn't  know.      You  call  him  Milliken. 

John.  Because  I  know  him,  because  I'm  intimate  with  him, 
because  there's  not  a  secret  he  has  but  I  may  have  it  for  the  asking ; 
because  the  letters  addressed  to  Horace  Milliken,  Esquire,  might  as 
well  be  addressed  John  Howell,  Esquire,  for  I  read  'em,  I  put  'em 
away  and  docket  'em,  and  remember  'em.  I  know  his  affairs  better 
than  he  does  :  his  income  to  a  shilling,  pay  his  tradesmen,  wear  his 
coats,  if  I  like.     /  may  call  Mr.  Milliken  what  I  please  ;  but  not 


4  THE    AVOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

you,  you  little  scamp  of  a  clod-hopping  ploughboy.  Know  your 
station  and  do  your  business,  or  you  don't  wear  them  buttons  long, 
I  pronuse  you.  \^Exit  Page. 

Let  me  go  on  with  the  paper.  (Reads.)  How  brilliant  this 
writing  is  !  Times,  Chronicle,  Daily  JVeivs,  they're  all  good,  blest 
if  they  ain't.  How  much  better  the  nine  leaders  in  them  three 
daily  papers  is,  than  nine  speeches  in  the  House  of  Commons  ! 
Take  a  very  best  speech  in  the  'Ouse  now,  and  compare  it  with 
an  article  in  the  Times  I  I  say,  the  newspaper  has  the  best  of 
it  for  philosophy,  for  wit,  novelty,  good  sense  too.  And  the  party 
that  writes  the  leading  article  is  nobody,  and  the  chap  that  speaks 
in  the  House  of  Commons  is  a  hero.  Lord,  Lord,  how  the  world 
is  'umbugged  !  Pop'lar  representation  !  What  is  pop'lar  repre- 
sentation 1  Dammy,  it's  a  farce.  Hallo  !  this  article  is  stole  !  I 
remember  a  passage  in  Montesquieu  uncommonly  like  it. 

[Goes  and  gets  the  booh.  As  he  is  standing  ^qwn  so/a  to 
get  it,  and  sitting  doivn  to  read  it.  Miss  Prior  and 
the  children  have  come  in  at  the  garden.  Children 
pass  across  stage. 

Miss  Prior  enters  by  open  ivindow,  bringing  flowers 
into  the  room. 

John.  It  is  like  it.  {He  slaps  the  booh,  and  seeing  Miss  Prior 
loho  enters,  theti  jumps  ti])  front  sofa,  saying  very  resp>ectfidly,)  I 
beg  your  pardon,  miss. 

Miss  Prior  (sarcastically).  Do  I  disturb  you,  Howell  ] 

John.  Disturb  !  I  have  no  right  to  say — a  servant  has  no 
right  to  be  disturbed,  but  I  hope  I  may  be  pardoned  for  venturing 
to  look  at  a  volume  in  the  libery,  miss,  just  in  reference  to  a  news- 
paper harticle — that's  all,  miss. 

Miss  P.  You  are  very  fortunate  in  finding  anything  to  interest 
you  in  the  paper,  I'm  sure. 

John.  Perhaps,  miss,  you  are  not  accustomed  to  political  dis- 
cussion, and  ignorant  of — ah — I  beg  your  pardon  :  a  servant,  I 
know,  has  no  right  to  speak. 

[Exit  into  dining-room,  making  a  loiv  bow. 

Miss  Prior.  The  coolness  of  some  people  is  really  quite  extra- 
ordinary !  the  airs  they  give  themselves,  the  way  in  which  they 
answer  one,  the  books  they  read !  Montesquieu :  "  Esprit  des 
Lois  ! "  (Takes  booh  uj)  which  J.  has  left  on  sofa.)  I  believe 
the  man  has  actually  taken  this  from  the  shelf.  I  am  sure  Mr. 
Milliken,  or  her  Ladyship,  never  would.  The  other  day  "  Hel- 
vetius  "  was  found  in  Mr.  Howell's  pantry,  forsooth  !     It  is  wonder- 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  5 

fill  how  he  })i('ke(l  up  French  whilst  we  were  abroad  !  "  Esprit  des 
Lois  ! "  what  is  it  1  it  must  be  dreadfully  stupid.  And  as  for 
reading  "  Helvetius "  (who,   I  suppose,  was  a  Roman  general),   I 

really    can't    understand    how Dear,    dear  !    what    airs    these 

persons  give  themselves  !  What  will  come  next  1  A  footman — I 
beg  Mr.  Howell's  pardon — a  butler  and  confidential  valet  lolls  on 
the  drawing-room  sofa,  and  reads  Montesquieu  !  Impudence  !  And 
add  to  this,  he  follows  me  for  the  last  two  or  three  months  with 
eyes  that  are  quite  horrid.  What  can  the  creature  mean?  But 
I  forgot — I  am  only  a  governess.  A  governess  is  not  a  lady — a 
governess  is  but  a  servant — a  governess  is  to  work  and  walk  all 
day  with  the  children,  dine  in  the  schoolroom,  and  come  to  the 
drawing-room  to  play  the  man  of  the  house  to  sleep.  A  governess 
is  a  domestic,  only  her  place  is  not  the  servants'  hall,  and  she  is 
paid  not  quite  so  well  as  the  butler  who  serves  her  her  glass  of 
wine.  Odious  !  George  !  Arabella  !  there  are  those  little  wretches 
quarrelling  again  !  [Uxit. 

Children  are  heard  calling  out,  and  seen  quarrelling 
in  garden. 

John  [re-entering).  See  wheie  slie  moves  !  grace  is  in  all  her 
steps.  'Eaven  in  her  high — no — a-heaven  in  her  heye,  in  every 
gesture  dignity  and  love — ah,  I  wish  I  could  say  it !  I  wish  you 
may  procure  it,  poor  fool !  She  passes  by  me — she  tr-r-amples  on 
me.  Here's  the  chair  she  sets  in.  (Kisses  it.)  Here's  the  piano 
she  plays  on.  Pretty  keys,  them  fingers  out-hivories  you  !  When 
she  plays  on  it,  I  stand  and  listen  at  the  drawing-room  door,  and 
my  heart  thr-obs  in  time  !  Fool,  fool,  fool !  why  did  you  look  on 
her,  John  Howell  ?  why  did  you  beat  for  her,  busy  heart  1  You 
were  tranquil  till  you  knew  her !  I  thought  I  could  have  been 
a-happy  with  Mary  till  then.  That  girl's  affection  soothed  me. 
Her  conversation  didn't  amuse  me  much,  her  ideers  ain't  exactly 
elevated,  but  they  are  just  and  proper.  Her  attentions  pleased  me. 
She  ever  kep'  the  best  cup  of  tea  for  me.  She  crisped  my  buttered 
toast,  or  mixed  my  quiet  tumbler  for  me,  as  I  sat  of  hevenings  and 
read  my  newspaper  in  the  kitching.  She  respected  tlie  sanctaty  of 
my  pantry.  When  I  was  a-studying  there,  she  never  interrupted 
me.  She  darned  my  stockings  for  me,  she  starched  and  folded 
my  chokers,  and  she  sowed  on  the  habsent  buttons  of  which 
time  and  chance  had  bereft  my  linning.  She  has  a  good  heart, 
Mary  has.  I  know  she'd  get  up  and  black  the  boots  for  me  of 
the  coldest  winter  mornings.  She  did  when  we  was  in  humbler 
life,  she  did. 


6  THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

Enter  Mary. 

You  have  a  good  heart,  Mary  ! 

Mary.   Have  I,  dear  John "?     {Sadly.) 

John.  Yes,  child — yes.  I  think  a  better  never  beat  in  woman's 
bosom.  You're  good  to  everybody— good  to  your  parents  whom  you 
send  half  your  wages  to  :  good  to  your  employers  whom  you  never 
robbed  of  a  halfpenny. 

Mary  {whimpering).  Yes,  I  did,  John.  I  took  the  jelly  when 
you  were  in  bed  with  the  influenza ;  and  brought  you  the  pork-wine 
negus. 

John.  Port,  not  pork,  child.  Pork  is  the  hanimal  which  Jews 
ab'or.     Port  is  from  Oporto  in  Portugal. 

Mary  {still  crying).  Yes,  John ;  you  know  everything  a'most, 
John. 

John.  And  you,  poor  child,  but  little  !  It's  not  heart  you 
want,  you  little  trump,  it's  education,  Mary  :  it's  information  :  it's 
head,  head,  head  !  You  can't  learn.  You  never  can  learn.  Your 
ideers  ain't  no  good.  You  never  can  hinterchange  'em  with  mine. 
Conversation  between  us  is  impossible.  It's  not  your  fault.  Some 
people  are  born  clever ;  some  are  born  tall— I  ain't  tall. 
Mary.   Ho  !  you're  big  enough  for  me,  John. 

[Offers  to  take  his  hand. 
John.  Let  go  my  'and— my  a-hand,  Mary  !  I  say,  some  people 
are  born  with  brains,  and  some  with  big  figures.  Look  at  that 
great  ass,  Bulkeley,  Lady  K.'s  man — the  besotted,  stupid  beast! 
He's  as  big  as  a  life-guardsman,  but  he  ain't  no  more  education  nor 
ideers  than  the  ox  he  feeds  on. 

Mary.  Law,  John,  whatever  do  you  mean  ] 
John.   H'm  !  you  know  not,  little  one  !  you  never  can  know. 
Have  you  ever  felt  the  pangs  of  imprisoned  genius  ?  have  you  ever 
felt  what  'tis  to  be  a  slave  ? 

Mary.  Not  in  a  free  country,  I  should  hope,  John  Howell — 
no  such  a  thing.  A  place  is  a  place,  and  I  know  mine,  and  am 
content  with  the  spear  of  life  in  which  it  pleases  Heaven  to  place 
me,  John  :  and  I  wish  you  were,  and  remembered  what  we  learned 
from  our  parson  when  we  went  to  school  together  in  dear  old 
Pigeoncot,  John— when  you  used  to  help  little  Mary  with  her 
lessons,  John,  and  fought  Bob  Brown,  the  big  butcher's  boy,  because 
he  was  rude  to  me,  John,  and  he  gave  you  that  black  hi. 
John.   Say  eye,  Mary,  not  heye  {gently). 

Mary.  Eye ;  and  I  thought  you  never  looked  better  in  all  your 
life  than  you  did  then  :  and  we  both  took  service  at  Squire  Milli- 
ken's — me  as  dairy-girl,  and  you  as  knife-boy  :  and  good  masters 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  7 

have  they  been  to  us  from  our  youth  hup  :  both  old  Squire  Milliken 
and  Mr.  Horace  as  is  master  now,  and  poor  Mrs.  as  is  dead,  though 
she  had  her  tantrums — and  I  thought  we  should  save  up  and  take 
the  "  Milliken  Arms  " — and  now  we  have  saved  up — and  now,  now, 
now — oh,  you  are  a  stone,  a  stone,  a  stone  !  and  I  wish  you  were 
hung  round  my  neck,  and  I  were  put  down  the  well !  There's  the 
hupstairs  bell. 

\_She  starts,  c?tanging  her  manner  as  she  heat's 
the  bell,  and  exit. 

John  (looking  after  her).  It's  all  true.  Gospel-true.  We 
were  children  in  the  same  village — sat  on  the  same  form  at  school. 
And  it  was  for  her  sake  that  Bob  Brown  the  butcher's  boy  wliopi)ed 
me.  A  black  eye  !  I'm  not  handsome.  But  if  I  were  ugly,  ugly 
as  the  Saracen's  'Ead,  ugly  as  that  beast  Bulkeley,  I  know  it  would 
be  all  the  same  to  Mary.  She  has  never  forgot  the  boy  she  loved, 
that  brought  birds'-nests  for  her,  and  spent  his  halfpenny  on  cherries, 
and  bought  a  fairing  with  his  first  half-crown^a  brooch  it  was,  I 
remember,  of  two  billing  doves  a-hopping  on  one  twig,  and  brought 
it  home  for  little  yellow-haired,  bine-eyed,  red-cheeked  Mary.  Lord, 
Lord  !  I  don't  like  to  think  how  I've  kissed  'em,  the  pretty  cheeks  ! 
they've  got  quite  pale  now  with  crying — and  she  has  never  once 
reproached  me,  not  once,  the  trump,  the  little  tr-rump ! 

Is  it  my  fault  {stamping)  that  Fate  has  separated  us  1  AVliy 
did  my  young  master  take  me  up  to  Oxford,  and  give  me  the  run 
of  his  libery  and  the  society  of  the  best  scouts  in  the  University  % 
Why  did  he  take  me  abroad "?  Why  have  I  been  to  Italy,  France, 
Jummany  with  him — their  manners  noted  and  their  realms  sur- 
veyed, by  Jingo  !  I've  improved  myself,  and  Mary  has  remained 
as  you  was.  I  try  a  conversation,  and  she  can't  respond.  She's 
never  got  a  word  of  poetry  beyond  Watts'  Ims,  and  if  I  talk  of 
Byron  or  Moore  to  her,  I'm  blest  if  she  knows  anything  more  about 
'em  than  the  cook,  who  is  as  hignorant  as  a  pig,  or  that  beast 
Bulkeley,  Lady  Kick's  footman.  Above  all,  why,  why  did  I  see 
the  woman  upon  whom  my  wretched  heart  is  fixed  for  ever,  and 
who  carries  away  my  soul  with  her — prostrate,  I  say,  prostrate, 
through  the  mud  at  the  skirts  of  her  gownd  !  Enslaver  !  why  did 
I  ever  come  near  you  ?  O  enchantress  Kelipso  !  how  you  have  got 
hold  of  me  !  It  was  Fate,  Fate,  Fate.  AVhen  Mrs.  Milliken  fell 
ill  of  scarlet  fever  at  Naples,  Milliken  was  away  at  Petersborough, 
Rooshia,  looking  after  his  projjcrty.  Her  foring  woman  fled.  Me 
and  the  governess  remained  and  nursed  her  and  the  children.  We 
nursed  the  little  ones  out  of  the  fever.  We  buried  their  mother. 
We  brought  the  children  home  over  Halp  and  Happenine.  I 
nursed  'em  all  three,  I  tended  'em  all  three,  the  orphans,  and  the 


8  THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

lovely  gu-gu-governess.  At  Rome  where  slie  took  ill,  I  waited  on 
her ;  as  we  went  to  Florence,  had  we  been  attacked  by  twenty 
thousand  brigands,  this  little  arm  had  courage  for  them  all !  And 
if  I  loved  thee,  Julia,  was  I  wrong "?  antl  if  I  basked  in  thy  beauty 
day  and  night,  Julia,  am  I  not  a  man  1  and  if,  before  this  Peri,  this 
enchantress,  this  gazelle,  I  forgot  poor  little  Mary  Barlow,  how 
could  I  help  it  ?     I  say,  how  the  doose  could  I  help  it  1 

Enter  Lady  Kicklebury,  'Bv'LKmjWi  following  with 
parcels  and  a  spaniel. 

Lady  K.  Are  the  children  and  the  governess  come  home  1 

John.   Yes,  my  Lady  (in  a  ptet'fectli/  altered  tone). 

Lady  K.   Bulkeley,  take  those  parcels  to  my  sitting-room. 

John.  Get  up,  old  stoopid.  Push  along,  old  daddylonglegs 
{aside  to  Bulkeley). 

Lady  K.  Does  any  one  dine  here  to-day,  Howelll 

John.   Captain  Touchit,  my  Lady. 

Lady  K.   He's  always  dining  here. 

John.  My  master's  oldest  friend. 

Lady  K.  Don't  tell  me.  He  comes  from  his  Club.  He  smells 
of  smoke  ;  he  is  a  low  vulgar  person.  Send  Pinhorn  up  to  rne  when 
you  go  dow^nstairs.  \Exit  Lady  K. 

John.  I  know.  Send  Pinhorn  to  me,  means.  Send  my  bonny 
brown  hair,  and  send  my  beautiful  complexion,  and  send  my  figure 
— and,  0  Lord  !  0  Lord  !  what  an  old  tigress  that  is  !  What  an 
old  Hector !  How  she  do  twist  Milliken  round  her  thumb  !  He's 
born  to  be  bullied  by  women  :  and  I  remember  him  henpecked — • 
let's  see,  ever  since — ever  since  the  time  of  that  little  gloveress  at 
Woodstock,  whose  picter  poor  Mrs.  M.  made  such  a  noise  about 
when  she  found  it  in  the  lumber-room.  Heh  !  her  picture  will  be 
going  into  the  lumber-room  some  day.  M.  must  marry  to  get  rid 
of  his  mother-in-law  and  mother  over  him  :  no  man  can  stand  it, 
not  M.  himself,  who's  a  Job  of  a  man.     Isn't  he  %  look  at  him  ! 

\As  he  has  been  speaking,  the  bell  has  7'ung,  the  Page 
has  run  to  the  garden-door,  and  Milliken  enters 
through  the  garden,  laden  tvith  a  hamper,  bandbox, 
and  cricket-bat. 

Milliken.  Why  was  the  carriage  not  sent  for  me,  Howell? 
There  was  no  cab  at  the  station,  and  I  have  had  to  toil  all  the  way 
uj)  the  hill  with  these  confounded  parcels  of  my  Lady's. 

John.  I  suppose  the  sliower  took  off  all  the  cabs,  sir.  When  did 
a  man  ever  git  a  cab  in  a  shower  ^^or  a  policeman  at  a  pinch — or  a 
friend  when  you  wanted  him — or  anything  at  the  right  time,  sir  1 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE   LAMB  9 

MiLLiKEN.   But,  sir,  why  didn't  the  carriage  come,  I  say  ? 

John.    You  know. 

MiLLiKEN.  How  do  you  mean  I  kuow?  confound  your  im- 
pudence ! 

John.  Lady  Kicklebury  took  it — your  mother-in-law  took  it — 
went  out  a-visiting — Ham  Common,  Petersham — -Twick'nam — doose 
knows  where.     She,  and  her  footman,  and  lier  span'l  dog. 

MiLLiKEN.  Well,  sir,  suppose  her  Ladyship  did  take  the  car- 
riage 1  Hasn't  she  a  perfect  right  1  And  if  the  carriage  was  gone, 
I  want  to  know,  John,  why  the  devil  the  pony-chaise  wasn't  sent 
with  the  groom  1  Am  I  to  bring  a  bonnet-box  and  a  hamper  of 
fish  in  my  own  hands,  I  should  like  to  knowl 

John.   Heh !     (Laiighs.) 

MiLLiEEN.   Why  do  you  grin,  you  Cheshire  cat  1 

John.  Your  mother-in-law  had  the  carriage ;  and  your  mother 
sent  for  the  pony-chaise.  Your  pa  wanted  to  go  and  see  the 
Wicar  of  Putney.  Mr.  Bonnington  don't  like  walking  when  he 
can  ride. 

MiLLiKEN.  And  why  shouldn't  Mr.  Bonnington  ride,  sir,  as 
long  as  there's  a  carriage  in  my  stable"?  Mr.  Bonnington  has  had 
the  gout,  sir !  Mr.  Bonnington  is  a  clergyman,  and  married  to  my 
mother.     He  has  eve7-t/  title  to  my  respect. 

John.   And  to  your  pony-chaise — yes,  sir. 

MiLLiKEN.   And  to  everything  he  likes  in  this  house,  sir. 

John.  AVhat  a  good  felloAv  you  are,  sir  !  You'd  give  your  head 
off  your  shoulders,  that  you  would.  Is  the  fish  for  dinner  to-day  1 
Bandbox  for  my  Lady,  I  suppose,  sir?  (Looks  iii.)  Turban, 
feathers,  bugles,  marabouts,  spangles — doose  knows  what.  Yes, 
it's  for  her  Ladyship.  {To  Paye.)  Charles,  take  this  bandbox  to 
her  Ladyship's  maid.  {To  his  master.)  What  sauce  would  you  like 
with  the  turbof?  Lobster  sauce  or  Hollandaise  ?  Hollandaise  is 
"best — most  wholesome  for  you.  Anybody  besides  Captain  Touchit 
coming  to  dinner  1 

MiLLiKEN.  No  one  that  I  know  of. 

John.  Very  good.  Bring  up  a  bottle  of  the  brown  hock  ? 
He  likes  the  brown  hock,  Touchit  does.  [Uxit  John. 

Enter  Children.     They  run  to  Milliken. 

Both.  How  d'you  do,  papa  1     How  do  you  do,  papa  ? 

Milliken.  Kiss  your  old  father,  Arabella.  Come  hei-e, 
George What  1 

George.  Don't  care  for  kissing— kissing's  for  gals.  Have  you 
brought  me  that  bat  from  London  ] 


10      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

MiLLiKEN.  Yes.  Here's  the  bat;  and  here's  the  ball  {takes 
one  from  2)oclcet) — and 

George.  Where's  the  wickets,  papal  O-o-o — where's  the 
wickets?     {Howls.) 

MiLLiKEN.  My  dear  darling  boy  !  I  left  them  at  the  office. 
What  a  silly  papa  I  was  to  forget  them  !     Parkins  forgot  them. 

George.   Then  turn  him  away,  I  say  !     Turn  him  away  ! 

[//(?  stamps. 

MiLLiKEN.  What!  an  old  iliithful  clerk  and  servant  of  your 
father  and  grandfather  for  thirty  years  past?  An  old  man,  who 
loves  us  all,  and  has  nothing  but  our  pay  to  live  on  ? 

Arabella.  Oh,  you  naughty  boy  ! 

George.  I  ain't  a  naughty  boy. 

Arabella.   You  are  a  naughty  boy. 

George.   He  !  he  !  he  !  he  !  [Grins  at  her. 

MiLLiKEN.  Hush,  children  !  Here,  Arabella  darling,  here  is 
a  book  for  you.     Look — aren't  they  i)retty  pictures  ? 

Arabella.  Is  it  a  story,  papa?  I  don't  care  for  stories  in 
general.  I  like  something  instructive  and  serious.  Grandmamma 
Bonnington  and  grandpapa  say 

George.  He's  not  your  grandpapa. 

Arabella.  He  is  my  grandpapa. 

George.   Oh,  you  great  story  !     Look  !  look  !  there's  a  cab. 
[Runs  out.      The  head  of  a  hansom  cab  is  seen  over  the 
garden-gate.      Bell  7'inf/s.     Page  comes.      Altercation 
between  Cabman  and  Captain  Touchit  appears  to  go 
on,  during  rvhich — 

Milliken.  Come  and  kiss  your  old  father,  Arabella.  He's 
hungry  for  kisses. 

Arabella.  Don't.  I  want  to  go  and  look  at  the  cab ;  and 
to  tell  Captain  Touchit  that  he  mustn't  use  naughty  words. 

[Runs  towards  garden.     Page  is  seen  carrying  a  carpet-bag. 

Enter  Touchit  through  the  open  xvindoiv,  smoking  a  cigar. 

Touchit.  How  d'ye  do,  Milliken  ?  How  are  tallows,  hey,  my 
noble  merchant  ?     I  have  brought  my  bag,  and  intend  to  sleep 

George.   I  say,  godpapa 

Touchit.  Well,  godson ! 

George.  Give  us  a  cigar  ! 

Touchit.  Oh,  you  enfant  terrible  ! 

Milliken    {wheezily).   Ah  —  ahem George   Touchit;    you 

wouldn't  mind — a — smoking  that  cigar  in  the  garden,  would  you? 
Ah— ah ! 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  11 

ToucHiT.  Hullo  !  What's  in  the  -n-ind  now  ]  You  used  to  be 
a  most  inveterate  smoker,  Horace. 

MiLLiKEN.  The  fact  is — my  mother-in-law — Lady  Kicklebury 
— doesn't  like  it,  and  while  she's  with  us,  you  know 

ToucHiT.  Of  course,  of  course  (throws  atvay  cigar).  I  beg 
her  Ladyship's  pardon.  I  remember  when  you  were  courting  her 
daughter  she  used  not  to  mind  it. 

MiLLiKEN.  Don't — don't  allude  to  those  tinies. 

[7/e  lool-s  i(p  at  his  wife's  picture. 

George.  My  mamma  was  a  Kicklebury.  The  Kickleburys 
are  the  oldest  family  in  all  the  world.  My  name  is  George  Kickle- 
bury Milliken,  of  Pigeoncot,  Hants  ;  the  Grove,  Richmond,  Surrey  ; 
and  Portland  Place,  London,  Esquire — my  name  is. 

ToucHiT.  You  have  forgotten  Billiter  Street,  hemp  and  tallow 
merchant. 

George.  Oh,  bother !  I  don't  care  about  that.  I  shall  leave 
that  when  Fm  a  man  :  when  I'm  a  man  and  come  into  my  property. 

Milliken.  You  come  into  your  property  1 

George.  I  shall,  you  know,  Avhen  you're  dead,  jjapa.  I  shall 
have  this  house,  and  Pigeoncot ;  and  the  house  in  town — no,  I 
don't  mind  about  the  house  in  town — and  I  shan't  let  Bella  live 
with  me — no,  I  won't. 

Bella.   No  ;  /  won't  live  with  yoii.     And  I'll  have  Pigeoncot. 

George.  You  shan't  have  Pigeoncot.  FU  have  it :  and  the 
ponies  :  and  I  won't  let  you  ride  them — and  the  dogs,  and  you 
shan't  have  even  a  puppy  to  ])]ay  with — and  the  dairy — and  won't 
I  have  as  much  cream  as  I  like — that's  all  ! 

ToucHiT.  What  a  darling  boy  !  Your  children  are  brought  up 
beautifully,  Milliken.     It's  quite  delightful  to  see  them  together. 

George.  And  I  shall  sink  the  name  of  Milliken,  I  shall. 

Milliken.  Sink  the  name?  why,  George] 

George.  Because  the  Millikens  are  nobodies  —  grandmamma 
says  they  are  nobodies.  The  Kickleburys  are  gentlemen,  and  came 
over  with  William  the  Conqueror. 

Bella.   I  know  when  that  was.     One  thousand  one  hundred  and 
onety-one  ! 

George.  Bother  when  they  came  over  !  But  I  know  this,  when 
I  come  into  the  property  I  shall  sink  the  name  of  Milliken. 

Milliken.  So  you  are  ashamed  of  your  father's  name,  are  you, 
George,  my  boy? 

George.  Ashamed  !  No,  I  ain't  ashamed.  Only  Kicklebury 
is  sweller.     I  know  it  is.     Grandmamma  says  so. 

Bella.  My  grandmamma  docs  not  say  so.  My  dear  grand- 
mamma says  that  family  pride  is  sinful,  and  all  belongs  to  this 


12      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

wicked  world  ;  and  that  in  a  very  few  years  what  our  names  are 
will  not  matter. 

George.  Yes,  she  says  so  because  her  father  kept  a  shop ; 
and  so  did  pa's  father  keep  a  sort  of  shop — only  pa's  a  gentle- 
man now. 

ToucHiT.  Darling  child  !  How  I  wish  I  were  married  !  If  I 
had  such  a  dear  boy  as  you,  George,  do  you  know  what  I  would 
give  him  1 

George  (gitite  j^leased).  What  would  you  give  him,  godpapa  1 

ToucHlT.  I  would  give  him  as  sound  a  flogging  as  ever  boy 
had,  my  darling.  I  would  whip  this  nonsense  out  of  him.  I 
would  send  him  to  school,  where  I  would  pray  tliat  he  might  be 
well  tlirashed  :  and  if  when  he  came  home  lie  was  still  ashamed 
of  his  father,  I  would  put  him  apprentice  to  a  chimney-sweep — 
that's  what  I  would  do. 

George.   I'm  glad  you're  not  my  fatlier,  that's  all. 

Bella.  And  Fm  glad  you're  not  my  father,  because  you  are  a 
wicked  man  ! 

Milliken.   Arabella ! 

Bella.  Grandmamma  says  so.  He  is  a  worldly  man,  and  the 
world  is  wicked.  And  he  goes  to  the  play :  and  he  smokes,  and 
he  says 

ToucHiT.   Bella,  what  do  I  say  ] 

Bella.  Oh,  something  dreadful !  You  know  you  do  !  I  heard 
you  say  it  to  the  cabman. 

ToucHiT.  So  I  did,  so  I  did  !  He  asked  me  fifteen  shillings 
from  Piccadilly,  and  I  told  him  to  go  to — to  somebody  whose  name 
begins  with  a  D. 

Children.  Here's  another  carriage  passing  ! 

Bella.   The  Lady  Bumble's  carriage. 

George.  No,  it  ain't :  it's  Captain  Boxer's  carriage. 

\They  run  into  the  garden. 

ToucHiT.  And  this  is  the  pass  to  which  you  have  brought 
yourself,  Horace  Milliken  !  Why,  in  your  wife's  time,  it  was 
better  than  this,  my  poor  fellow  ! 

Milliken.  Don't  speak  of  her  in  that  way,  George  Touchit ! 

ToucHiT.  What  have  I  said?  I  am  only  regretting  her  loss 
for  your  sake.  Slie  tyrannised  over  you  ;  turned  your  friends  out 
of  doors ;  took  your  name  out  of  your  Clubs ;  dragged  you  about 
from  party  to  party,  though  you  can  no  more  dance  than  a  bear, 
and  from  opera  to  opera,  though  you  don't  know  "  God  Save  the 
Queen"  from  "Rule  Britannia."  You  don't,  sir;  you  know  you 
don't.  But  Arabella  Avas  better  than  her  mother,  who  has  taken 
possession  of  you  since  your  widowhood. 


THE    AVOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  13 

MiLLiKEN.  My  dear  fellow !  no,  she  hasn't.  There's  my 
mother. 

TouciiiT.  Yes,  to  be  sure,  there's  Mrs.  Bonnmgton,  and  they 
quarrel  over  you  like  the  two  ladies  over  the  baby  before  King 
Solomon. 

MiLLiKEN.  Play  the  satirist,  my  good  friend  !  laugli  at  my 
weakness  ! 

ToucHiT.  I  know  you  to  be  as  plucky  a  fellow  as  ever  stepped, 
Milliken,  when  a  man's  in  the  case.  I  know  you  and  I  stood  up  to 
each  other  for  an  hour  and  a  half  at  Westminster. 

Milliken.  Thank  you  !  We  were  both  dragons  of  war ! 
tremendous  chami)ions  !  Perhaps  /  am  a  little  soft  as  regards 
women.  I  know  my  weakness  well  enough  ;  but  in  my  case  what 
is  my  remedy  1  Put  yourself  in  my  position.  Be  a  widower  with 
two  young  childre]i.  What  is  more  natural  than  that  the  mother 
of  my  poor  wife  should  come  and  superintend  my  family  1  My  own 
mother  can't.  She  has  a  half-dozen  of  little  half  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  a  husband  of  her  own  to  attend  to.  I  daresay  Mr. 
Bonnington  and  my  mother  will  come  to  dinner  to-day. 

TouciiiT.  Of  course  they  will,  my  poor  old  Milliken  ;  you  don't 
dare  to  dine  without  them. 

Milliken.  Don't  go  on  in  tliat  manner,  George  Touchit !  Why 
should  not  my  stepfather  and  my  mother  dine  with  me"?  I  can 
afford  it.  I  am  a  domestic  man  and  like  to  see  my  relations  about 
me.     I  am  in  the  City  all  day. 

Touchit.  Luckily  for  you. 

Milliken.  And  my  pleasure  of  an  evening  is  to  sit  under  my 
own  vine  and  under  my  own  fig  tree  with  my  own  olive-branches 
round  about  me ;  to  sit  by  my  fire  with  my  children  at  my  knees  ; 
to  coze  over  a  snug  bottle  of  claret  after  dinner  with  a  friend  like 
you  to  share  it ;  to  see  the  young  folks  at  the  breakfast-table  of  a 
morning,  and  to  kiss  them  and  so  off  to  business  with  a  cheerful 
heart.  This  was  my  scheme  in  marrying,  had  it  jilcased  Heaven  to 
prosper  my  plan.  AVhen  I  was  a  boy,  and  came  from  s(;hool  and 
college,  I  used  to  see  Mr.  Bonnington,  my  father-in-law,  with  his 
young  ones  clustering  round  about  him,  so  happy  to  be  Avitli  him  ! 
so  eager  to  wait  on  him  !  all  down  on  their  little  knees  round  my 
mother  before  brcakftist  or  jumiting  up  on  his  after  dinner.  It  was 
who  should  reach  his  hat,  and  who  should  bring  his  coat,  and  who 
should  fetch  his  umbrella,  and  who  should  get  the  last  kiss. 

Touchit.  What  ?  didn't  he  kiss  you  1  Oh,  the  hard-hearted 
old  ogre  ! 

Milliken.  BonH,  Touchit !  Don't  laugh  at  Mr.  Bonnington  ! 
He  is  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed.     Between  you  and  me, 


14  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

as  my  half  brothers  and  sisters  increased  and  multiplied  year  after 
year,  I  used  to  feel  rather  lonely,  rather  bowled  out,  you  understand. 
But  I  saw  thein  so  happy  that  I  longed  to  have  a  home  of  my  own. 
When  iny  mother  proposed  Arabella  for  me  (for  she  and  Lady 
Kicklebury  were  immense  friends  at  one  time),  I  was  glad  enough 
to  give  up  Clubs  and  bachelorhood,  and  to  settle  down  as  a  married 
man.  My  mother  acted  for  the  best.  My  poor  wife's  character, 
my  mother  used  to  say,  changed  after  marriage.  I  was  not  as 
happy  as  I  hojjed  to  be  ;  but  I  tried  for  it.  George,  I  am  not  so 
comfortable  now  as  I  might  be.  A  house  without  a  mistress,  with 
two  mothers-indaw  reigning  over  it — one  Avorldly  and  aristocratic, 
another  what  you  call  serious,  though  she  don't  mind  a  rubber  of 
whist :  I  give  you  my  honour  my  mother  plays  a  game  at  whist, 
and  an  uncommonly  good  game  too — each  woman  dragging  over  a 
cliild  to  her  side :  of  course  such  a  family  cannot  be  comfortable. 
{Bell  rings.)  There's  the  first  dinner-bell.  Go  and  dress,  for 
Heaven's  sake  ! 

TouoHiT.   Why  dress  1     There  is  no  company  ! 

MiLLiKEN.  Wliyl  ah  !  her  Ladyshi[)  likes  it,  you  see.  And  it 
costs  nothing  to  humour  her.  Quick  !  for  she  don't  like  to  be  kept 
waiting. 

ToucHiT.  Horace  Milliken  !  what  a  pity  it  is  the  law  declares 
a  widower  shall  not  marry  his  wife's  mother  !  She  would  marry 
you  else, — she  would,  on  my  Avord. 

Enter  John. 

John.   I  have  took  the  Captain's  things  in  the  blue  room,  sir. 
\_Exetmt  gentlemen,  John  arranges  tables,  &c. 

Ha  !  Mrs.  Prior  !  I  ain't  partial  to  Mrs.  Prior.  I  think  she's 
an  artful  ohl  dodger,  Mrs.  Prior.  I  think  there's  mystery  in  her 
unfathomable  pockets,  and  schemes  in  the  folds  of  her  umbrella. 
But — but  she's  Jvdia's  mother,  and  for  the  beloved  one's  sake  I  am 
civil  to  her. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Thank  you,  Charles  {to  the  Page,  xvho  has  been 
seen  to  let  her  in  at  the  garden-gate),  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you  ! 
Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Howell.  Is  my  daughter — are  the  darling 
children  well  1  Oh,  I  am  quite  tired  and  weary  !  Three  horrid 
omnibuses  were  full,  and  I  have  had  to  walk  the  whole  weary 
long  way.  Ah,  times  are  changeti  with  me,  Mr.  Howell !  Once 
when  I  was  young  and  strong,  I  had  my  husband's  carriage  to 
ride  in. 

John  {aside).  His  carriage !  his  coal-waggon !  I  know  well 
enough  who  old  Prior  was,     A  merchant  1  yes,  a  pretty  merchant ! 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  15 

kep'  a  lodging-house,  share  in  a  barge,  touting  for  orders,  and  at 
last  a  snug  little  place  in  the  Gazette. 

Mrs.  Prior.  How  is  your  cough,  Mr.  Howell  ?  1  have  brought 
you  some  lozenges  for  it  {takes  numberless  articles  from  her  j)ocket), 
and  if  you  would  take  them  of  a  night  and  morning — oh,  indeed, 
you  would  get  better  !  The  late  Sir  Henry  Halford  recommended 
them  to  Mr.  Prioi".  He  was  his  late  Majesty's  pliysician  and  ours. 
You  know  we  have  seen  happier  times,  Mr.  Howell.  Oli,  I  am 
quite  tired  and  faint. 

John.  Will  you  take  anything  before  the  schoolroom  tea, 
ma'am  1  You  will  stop  to  tea,  I  liope,  with  Miss  Prior,  and  our 
young  folks? 

Mrs.  Prior.  Tliank  you  :  a  little  glass  of  wine  when  one  is  so 
faint — a  little  crumb  of  biscuit  wlien  one  is  so  old  and  tired  !  I 
have  not  been  accustomed  to  want,  you  know  ;  and  in  my  poor 
dear  Mr.  Prior's  time ■ 

John.  I'll  fetch  some  wine,  ma'am.     [Uxit  to  the  dining-room. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Bless  the  man,  how  alirupt  he  is  in  his  manner  ! 
He  quite  shocks  a  poor  lady  wlio  has  been  used  to  better  days. 
What's  here  1  Livitations — ho  !  Bills  for  Lady  Kicklebury  ! 
They  are  not  paid.  Wliere  is  Mr.  M.  going  to  dine,  I  wonder'? 
Captain  and  Mrs.  Hopkinson,  Sir  John  and  Lady  Tomkinson, 
request  the  pleasure.  Request  the  pleasure  !  Of  course  they  do. 
They  are  always  asking  Mr.  INI.  to  dinner.  Tliey  have  daughters 
to  marry,  and  Mr.  M.  is  a  widower  with  three  thousand  a  year, 
every  shilling  of  it.  I  must  tell  Lady  Kicklebury.  He  nuist 
never  go  to  these  places — never,  never — mustn't  be  allowed. 

[  While  talking^  she  opens  all  the  letters  on  the  table,  rum- 
mages the  portfolio  and  ivriting-box,  looks  at  cards 
on  Tnantelpiece,  work  in  icork-basket,  tries  tea-box,  and 
shoivs  the  greatest  activity  and  curiosity. 

Re-enter  John,  bearing  a  tray  iciiJi.  cakes,  a  decanter,  <tc. 

Thank  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Howell !  Oh,  oh,  dear  me,  not  so 
much  as  that !  Half  a  glass,  and  one  biscuit,  please.  What 
elegant  sherry  !  (Si/^s  a  Utile,  and  puts  down  glass  on  tray.)  Do 
yo>i  know,  I  reifiember  in  better  days,  Mr.  Howell,  when  my  poor 
dear  husband 

John.  Beg  your  pardon.  There's  Milliken's  bell  going  like 
mad.  [Exit  John. 

Mrs.  Pkior.  What  an  abrupt  ])erson  !  Oli,  but  it's  comfort- 
able, this  wine  is  !  And — and  I  tliink  how  my  poor  Charlotte 
would  like  a  little — she  so  weak,  and  ordered  wine  by  the  medical 


IG  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

iiuui  !  And  when  dear  Adolphus  comes  home  from  Christ's  Hospital, 
quite  tired,  poor  boy,  and  hungry,  wouldn't  a  bit  of  nice  cake  do 
him  good  1  Adolphus  is  so  fond  of  plum-cake,  the  darling  child ! 
And  so  is  Frederick,  little  saucy  rogue ;  and  I'll  give  them  my  piece, 
and  keep  my  glass  of  wine  for  my  dear  delicate  angel  Shatty ! 

l^Takes   bottle   and  2^(^per  out    of  her  2^ocket,    cuts    off  a 

great  slice  of  cake,  and  ponrs  ivine  from  ivine-glass 

and  decanter  into  bottle. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  Master  George  and  Miss  Bella  is  going  to  have  their 
teas  down  here  with  Miss  Prior,  Mrs.  Prior,  and  she's  up  in  the 
schoolroom,  and  my  Lady  says  you  may  stay  to  tea. 

Mrs.  Peior.  Thank  you,  Charles !  How  tall  you  grow ! 
Tho.je  trousers  would  fit  my  darling  Frederick  to  a  nicety.  Thank 
you,  Cliarles  !     /  know  the  way  to  the  nursery.      \_Exit  Mrs.  P. 

Page.  Know  the  way  !  I  believe  she  do  know  the  way.  Been 
a  having  cake  and  wine.,  Howell  always  gives  her  cake  and  wine 
— ^joUy  cake,  ain't  it?  and  wine,  oh,  my! 

Re-enter  John. 

John.  You  young  gormandising  cormorant !  What !  five 
meals  a  day  ain't  enough  for  you  !  What !  beer  ain't  good  enough 
for  you,  hey  ?  [Pidls  hoy's  ears. 

Page  {crying).  Oh,  oh,  do-o-n't,  Mr.  Howell !  I  only  took 
half  a  glass,  upon  my  honour. 

John.  Your  a-hoiiour,  you  lying  young  vagabond  !  I  wonder 
the  ground  don't  open  and  swallow  you.  Half  a  glass  !  {Holds  up 
decanter.)  You've  took  half  a  bottle,  you  young  Ananias  !  Mark 
this,  sir !  When  I  was  a  boy,  a  boy  on  my  promotion,  a  child 
kindly  took  iu  from  charity-school,  a  horphan  in  buttons  like  you, 
I  never  lied  ;  no,  nor  never  stole,  and  you've  done  both,  you  little 
scoundrel !  Don't  tell  me,  sir  !  there's  plums  on  your  coat,  crumbs 
on  your  cheek,  and  you  smell  sherry,  sir !  I  ain't  time  to  whop 
you  now,  but  come  to  my  pantry  to-night  after  you've  took  the 
tray  down.  Come  without  your  ^jacket  on,  sir,  and  then  I'll  teach 
yoii  what  it  is  to  lie  and  steal.  There's  the  outer  bell.  Scud,  you 
vagabond  ! 

Enter  Lady  K. 

Lady  K.   What  was  that  noise,  pray  ? 

John.  A  difference  between  me  aiid  young  Page,  my  Lady. 
I  was  instructing  him  to  keep  his  hands  from  picking  and  steal- 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  17 

ing.     I  was  loai-nin.L^  him  his  lesson,  my  L:uly,  and  he  was  a-crying 
it  out. 

Lady  K.  It  seems  to  me  you  are  most  unkind  to  that  boy, 
Howell.  He  is  my  boy,  sir.  He  comes  from  mj  estate.  I  will 
not  have  him  ill-used.  I  think  you  presume  on  your  long  services. 
I  shall  speak  to  my  son-in-law  about  you.  (''Yes,  my  Lady;  no, 
my  Lady ;  very  good,  my  Lady."  John  has  ansicered  each  sentence 
as  she  is  sj^eakinc/,  and  exit  gravely  boivimj.)  That  man  must 
quit  the  house.  Horace  says  he  can't  do  without  him,  but  he  7aust 
do  without  him.  My  poor  dear  Arabella  was  fond  of  him,  but  he 
presumes  on  that  defunct  angel's  partiality.  Horace  says  this 
person  keeps  all  his  accounts,  sorts  all  his  letters,  manages  all  his 
affairs,  may  be  trusted  with  untold  gold,  and  rescued  little  George 
out  of  the  fire.  Now  I  have  come  to  live  with  my  son-in-law,  / 
will  keep  his  accounts,  sort  his  letters,  and  take  charge  of  his 
money  :  and  if  little  Georgy  gets  into  the  grate,  /  will  take  him 
out  of  the  fire.  What  is  here  1  Invitation  frouj  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Hopkinson.  Invitation  from  Sir  John  and  Lady  Tomkinson,  who  don't 
even  ask  nic  !     Monstrous  !  he  never  shall  go — he  shall  not  go  ! 

\_Mrs.  Frior  has  re-entered  ;  she  d)'ops  a  very  loto  cairtsey 
to  Lady  K.,  as  the  latter,  2J<''>'ceiving  her,  lays  the 
cards  dotvn. 

Mrs,  Prior.  Ah,  dear  madam !  how  kind  your  Ladyship's 
message  was  to  the  fjoor  lonely  widow-woman  !  Oh,  how  thought- 
ful it  was  of  your  Ladyship  to  ask  me  to  stay  to  tea  ! 

Lady  K.  With  your  daughter  and  the  children.  Indeed,  my 
good  Mrs.  Prior,  you  are  very  welcome  ! 

Mrs.  Prior.  Ah  !  but  isn't  it  a  cause  of  thankfulness  to  be 
made  welcome  ]  Oughtn't  I  to  be  grateful  for  these  blessings  1 — ■ 
yes,  I  say  blessings.  And  I  am — I  am.  Lady  Ki(;klebury — to  the 
mother — of — that  angel  who  is  gone.  {Points  to  the  jincture^  It 
was  your  sainted  daughter  left  us — left  my  child  to  the  care  of  Mr. 
Milliken,  and — and  you,  who  are  now  his  guardian  angel  I  may 
say.  You  are.  Lady  Kicklebury — you  are.  I  say  to  my  girl,  Julia, 
Lady  Kicklebury  is  Mr.  Milliken's  guardian  angel,  is  your  guardian 
angel — for  without  you  could  she  keep  her  jilace  as  governess  to 
these  darling  children  %  It  would  tear  her  heart  in  two  to  leave 
them,  and  yet  she  would  be  forced  to  do  so.  You  know  that  some 
one — shall  I  hesitate  to  say  whom  /  mean  ? — that  Mr.  Milliken's 
mother,  excellent  lady  though  she  is,  docs  not  love  my  child  because 
you  love  her.  You  do  love  her.  Lady  Kicklebury,  and  oh  !  a 
mother's  fond  heart  pays  you  back  !  But  for  you,  my  poor  Julia 
must  go — go,  and  leave  the  children  whom  a  dying  angel  confided 
to  her  ! 

2 


18  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

Lady  K.  Go  !  no,  never !  not  whilst  /  am  in  tliis  house,  Mrs. 
Prior.  Your  daughter  is  a  well-behaved  young  woman  :  you  have 
confidetl  to  me  her  long  engagement  to  Lieutenant — Lieutenant 
\Vliat-d'-you-call-'im,  in  the  Indian  service.  She  has  been  very, 
very  good  to  my  grandchildren — she  brought  them  over  from  Naples 
when  my — my  angel  of  an  Arabella  died  there,  and  I  will  protect 
Miss  Prior. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Bless  you,  bless  you,  noble,  admirable  woman  ! 
Don't  take  it  away  !  I  must,  I  ^v^ll  kiss  your  dear  generous  hand  ! 
Take  a  mother's,  a  Avidow's  blessings,  Lady  Kicklebury — the 
blessings  of  one  who  has  known  misfortune  and  seen  better  days, 
and  tlianks  Heaven — yes.  Heaven ! — for  the  protectors  she  has 
found  ! 

Lady  K.  You  said — you  had — several  children,  I  think,  my 
good  Mrs.  Prior] 

Mrs.  Prior.  Three  boys — one,  my  eldest  blessing,  is  in  a  wine- 
merchant's  office — ah,  if  Mr.  Milliken  would  but  give  him  an  order  ! 
an  order  from  this  house !  an  order  from  Lady  Kicklebury's  son-in- 
law  ! 

Lady  K.  It  shall  be  done,  my  good  Prior — we  will  see. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Another,  Adolphus,  dear  fellow  !  is  in  Clirist's 
Hospital.  It  was  dear  good  Mr.  Milliken's  nomination.  Frederick 
is  at  Merchant  Taylors' :  my  darling  Julia  pays  his  schooling. 
Besides,  I  have  two  girls — Amelia,  quite  a  little  toddles,  just  the 
size,  though  not  so  beautiful — but  in  a  mother's  eyes  all  cliildren 
are  lovely,  dear  Lady  Kicklebury — ^just  the  size  of  your  dear  grand- 
daughter, whose  clothes  would  fit  her,  I  am  sure.  And  my  second, 
Charlotte,  a  girl  as  tall  as  your  Ladyship,  tliough  not  with  so  fine  a 
figure.  "Ah,  no,  Shatty  !  "  I  say  to  her,  "you  are  as  tall  as  our 
dear  patroness.  Lady  Kicklebury,  whom  you  long  so  to  see ;  but 
you  have  not  got  her  Ladyship's  carriage  and  figure,  child."  Five 
children  have  I,  left  fatlierless  and  penniless  by  my  poor  dear 
husband — but  Heaven  takes  care  of  the  widow  and  orphan,  madam 
— and  Heaven's  best  creatures  feed  them  \—y<m  know  whom  I 
mean. 

Lady  K.  Should  you  not  like,  would  you  object  to  take — a 
frock  or  two  of  little  Arabella's  to  your  child?  and  if  Pinhorn,  my 
maid,  will  let  me,  Mrs.  Prior,  I  will  see  if  I  cannot  find  something 
against  winter  for  your  second  daughter,  as  you  say  we  are  of 
a  size. 

Mrs,  Prior.  The  widow's  and  orphans'  blessings  upon  you  ! 
I  said  my  Charlotte  was  as  tall,  but  I  never  said  she  had  such  a 
figure  as  yours — who  has  ? 

Page  {announces).  Mrs.  Bonningtoo  .' 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  19 

Enter  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

Mrs.  B.  How  do  you  do,  Lady  Kicklebury  ? 

Lady  K.  My  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  and  you  come  to  dinner, 
of  course  ? 

Mrs.  B.  To  dine  with  my  own  son,  I  may  take  the  liberty. 
How  are  my  grandchil(h'en  ]  my  darhng  little  Emily,  is  she  well, 
Mrs.  Priori 

Lady  K.  (aside).  Emily?  why  does  she  not  call  tlie  child  by 
lier  IJessed  mother's  name  of  Arabella?  (To  Mrs.  B.)  Arabella  is 
quite  well,  Mrs.  Bonnington.  Mr.  Squillings  said  it  was  nothing ; 
only  her  Grandmamma  Bonnington  spoiling  her,  as  usual.  Mr. 
Bonnington  and  all  your  numerous  young  folk  are  well,  I  hope? 

Mrs.  B.  My  family  are  all  in  perfect  health,  I  thank  you.  Is 
Horace  come  home  from  the  City  ? 

Lady  K.  Goodness !  there's  the  dinner-bell, — I  must  run  to 
dress. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Shall  I  come  with  you,  dear  Lady  Kicklebury  ? 

Lady  K.   Not  for  worlds,  my  good  ]\Irs.  Prior. 

[Exit  Lady  K. 

Mrs.  Prior.  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  madam  ?  Is  tlear 
Mr.  Bonnington  quite  well  ?  What  a  sweet,  sweet  sermon  he 
gave  us  last  Sunday  !  I  often  say  to  my  girl,  I  must  not  go  to 
hear  Mr.  Bonnington,  I  really  must  not,  he  makes  me  cry  so. 
Oh  !  he  is  a  great  and  gifted  man,  and  shall  I  not  have  one  glimpse 
of  him  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Saturday  evening,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior.  Don't  you 
know  that  my  husband  never  goes  out  on  Saturday,  having  his 
sermon  to  compose  ? 

Mrs.  p.  Oh,  those  dear  dear  sermons  !  Do  you  know^,  madam, 
that  my  little  Adolphus,  for  whom  your  son's  bounty  procured  his 
place  at  Christ's  Hospital,  was  very  nmch  touched  indeed,  the  dear 
child,  with  Mr.  Bonningtou's  discourse  last  Sunday  three  weeks, 
and  refused  to  play  marbles  afterwards  at  school?  The  wicked 
naughty  boys  beat  the  j)oor  child ;  but  Adolphus  has  his  consola- 
tion !  Is  Master  Edward  well,  ma'am,  and  Master  Robert,  and 
Master  Frederick,  and  dear  little  funny  Master  William  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Prior;  you  have  a  good  heart, 
indeed  ! 

Mrs.  p.  Ah,  what  blessings  those  dears  are  to  you !  I  wish 
your  dearest  little  grandson 

Mrs.  B.  The  little  naughty  wretch  !  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Prior, 
my  grandson,  George  Millikcn,  spilt  the  ink  over  my  dear  husbands' 
bands,  which  he  keeps  in  his  great  dictionary ;  and  fought  with  my 


20  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

fhild,  Frederick,  who  is  three  years  older  than  George — actually 
beat  his  own  uncle  !    ■ 

Mrs.  p.  Gracious  mercy  !  Master  Frederick  was  not  hurt,  I 
hope"? 

Mks.  B.  No  ;  he  cried  a  great  deal  :  and  then  Robert  came  up, 
and  that  graceless  little  George  took  a  stick ;  and  then  my  husband 
came  out,  and  do  you  know  George  Milliken  actually  kicked  Mr. 
Bonnington  on  his  shins,  and  butted  him  like  a  little  naughty  ram  1 

Mrs.  p.  Mercy  !  mercy  !  what  a  little  rebel !  He  is  spoiled, 
dear  madam,  and  you  know  by  vjhom. 

Mrs.  B.  By  his  Grandmamma  Kicklebury.  I  know  it.  I 
want  my  son  to  whip  that  child,  but  he  refuses.  He  will  come  to 
no  good,  that  child. 

Mrs.  p.  Ah,  madam  !  don't  say  so  !  Let  us  hope  for  the  best. 
Master  George's  high  temper  will  subside  when  certain  persons  who 
pet  him  are  gone  away. 

Mrs.  B.  Gone  away  !  tliey  never  will  go  away  !  No,  mark  my 
words,  Mrs.  Prior,  that  woman  will  never  go  away.  She  has  made 
the  house  her  own :  she  commands  everything  and  everybody  in  it. 
She  has  driven  me — me — Mr.  Milliken's  own  mother — almost  out 
of  it.  Slie  has  so  annoyed  my  dear  husband,  that  Mr.  Bonnington 
will  scarcely  come  here.  Is  she  not  always  sneering  at  private 
tutors,  because  Mr.  Bonnington  was  my  son's  private  tutor,  and 
greatly  valued  by  the  late  Mr.  Milliken  1  Is  she  not  making 
constant  allusions  to  old  women  marrying  young  men,  because  Mr. 
Bonnington  happens  to  be  younger  tlian  me  ?  I  have  no  words  to 
express  my  indignation  respecting  La<ly  Kicklebury.  She  never 
pays  any  one,  and  runs  up  debts  in  the  whole  town.  Her  man 
Bulkeley's  conduct  in  the  neighbourhood  is  quite — quite 

Mrs.  p.  Gracious  goodness,  ma'am,  yon  don't  say  so !  And 
then  what  an  appetite  the  gormandising  monster  has  ?  Mary  tells 
me  that  what  he  eats  in  the  servants'  hall  is  something  perfectly 
frightful. 

Mrs.  B.  Everybody  feeds  on  my  poor  son !  You  are  looking 
at  my  cap,  Mrs.  Prior?  [Durinf/  this  time  Mrs.  Prior  has  been 
peering  into  a  parcel  xvhich  Mrs.  Bonnington  brought  in  her 
hand.)  I  brought  it  with  me  across  the  Park.  I  could  not  walk 
through  the  Park  in  my  cap.     Isn't  it  a  ])retty  ribbon,  Mrs.  Priori 

Mrs.  p.  Beautiful !  beautiful !  How  blue  becomes  you  !  Who 
would  think  you  were  the  mother  of  Mr.  Milliken  and  seven  other 
darling  children  1     You  can  aftbrd  what  Lady  Kicdvlebury  cannot. 

Mrs.  B.  And  what  is  that,  Prior?  A  poor  clergyman's  wife, 
with  a  large  family,  cannot  afford  much. 

Mrs.  p.  He  !  he  !    You  can  afford  to  be  seen  as  you  are,  which 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  21 

Lady  K.  cannot.  Did  you  not  remark  how  afraid  she  seemed  lest 
I  should  enter  her  (h-essing-room  1  Only  Pinhorn,  her  maid,  goes 
there,  to  arrange  the  roses,  and  the  lihes,  and  the  figure — he  !  he  ! 
Oh,  what  a  sweet  sweet  cap-ribbon  !  When  you  have  worn  it,  and 
are  tired  of  it,  you  will  give  it  me,  won't  you  1  It  will  be  good 
enough  for  poor  old  Martha  Prior  ! 

Mes.  B.  Do  you  really  like  it  1  Call  at  Greenwood  Place, 
Mrs.  Prior,  the  next  time  you  pay  Richmond  a  visit,  and  bring 
your  little  girl  with  you,  and  we  will  see. 

Mrs.  p.  Oh,  thank  you ;  tliank  you  !  Nay,  don't  be  oflfended  ! 
I  must !  I  must !  [Kisses  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

Mrs.  B.  There,  there  !  We  must  not  stay  chattering !  The 
bell  has  rung.     I  must  go  and  put  the  cap  on,  Mrs.  Prior. 

Mrs.  p.  And  I  may  come,  too?  You  are  not  afraid  of  my 
seeing  your  hair,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington !  Mr.  Bonnington  too 
young  for  you  !     Why,  you  don't  look  twenty  ! 

Mrs.  B.  Oh,  Mrs.  Prior ! 

Mrs.  p.  AVell,  five-and-twenty,  upon  my  word — not  more  than 
five-and-twenty — and  that  is  the  very  prime  of  li^e  ! 

\_Exeunt  Mrs.  B.  and  Mrs.  P.  hand  in  hand.  As  Cap- 
tain Touchit  enters  dressed  for  dinner,  he  botes  arid 
passes  on. 

Touchit.  So,  wc  are  to  wear  our  wliite  cravats,  and  our 
varnished  boots,  and  dine  in  ceremony.  Wliat  is  the  use  of  a  man 
being  a  widower,  if  he  can't  dine  in  his  shooting-jacket  1  Poor 
Mill !  He  has  the  slavery  now  without  the  wife.  (He  spea/is 
sarcastically  to  the  jncture.)  Well,  well !  Mrs.  Milliken  !  Yon 
at  any  rate,  are  gone  ;  and,  witli  the  utmost  respect  for  you,  I  like 
your  picture  even  better  than  the  original.     Miss  Prior ! 

Enter  Miss  Prior. 

Miss  Prior.  I  beg  pardon.  I  thonght  you  were  gone  to  dinner. 
I  heard  the  second  bell  some  time  since.      [She  is  draiving  hack. 

Touchit.  Stop  !  I  say,  Julia !  {She  retwyis,  he  looks  at  her, 
takes  her  hand.)  Why  do  you  dress  yourself  in  this  odd  poky 
way  1  You  used  to  be  a  very  smartly  dressed  girl.  Why  do  you 
hide  your  hair,  and  wear  such  a  dowdy  high  gown,  Jidia  1 

Julia.  You  mustn't  call  me  Julia,  Cai)tain  Touchit, 

Touchit.  Why?  when  I  lived  in  your  mother's  lodging,  I 
calleil  you  Julia.  When  you  bronglit  up  the  tea,  you  didn't  mind 
being  called  Julia.  When  we  used  to  go  to  the  play  with  the 
tickets  the  Editor  gave  us,  who  lived  on  tlie  second  floor 

JuuA.   The  wretcli ! — don't  speak  of  him  ! 


22  THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

ToucHiT.  Ah  !  I  am  afraid  he  was  a  sad  deceiver,  that  Editor. 
He  was  a  very  clever  fellow.  Wliat  droll  songs  he  used  to  sing ! 
What  a  heap  of  play-tickets,  diorama-tickets,  concert-tickets,  he 
used  to  give  you  !     Did  he  touch  your  heart,  Julia? 

Julia.  Fiddlededee  !  No  man  ever  touched  my  heart,  Captain 
Touchit. 

ToucHiT.  What !  not  even  Tom  Flight,  who  had  the  second 
floor  after  the  Editor  left  it — and  who  cried  so  bitterly  at  the  idea 
of  going  out  to  Lidia  without  you  1  You  had  a  tendre  for  him — • 
?.  little  passion — you  know  you  iiad.  Why,  even  the  ladies  here 
know  it.  Mrs.  Bonnington  told  me  that  you  were  waiting  for  a 
sweetheart  in  India,  to  whom  you  were  engaged ;  and  Lady  Kickle- 
bury  thinks  you  are  dying  in  love  for  the  absent  swain. 

Julia.  I  hope— I  hope — you  did  not  contradict  them,  Captain 
Touchit  ? 

Touchit.  Why  not,  my  dear"? 

Julia.  May  I  be  frank  with  youl  You  were  a  kind,  very 
kind  friend  to  us — to  me  in  my  youth. 

Touchit.  I  paid  my  lodgings  regularly,  and  my  bills  without 
asking  questions.  I  never  weighed  the  tea  in  the  caddy,  or 
counted  the  lumps  of  sugar,  or  heeded  the  rapid  consumption  of 
my  liqueur 

Julia.  Hush,  hush  !  I  know  they  were  taken.  I  know  you 
were  very  good  to  us.  You  helped  my  poor  papa  out  of  many 
a  difficulty. 

Touchit  (aside).  Tipsy  old  coal-merchant !  I  did,  and  he 
helped  himself  too. 

Julia.  And  you  were  always  our  best  friend.  Captain  Touchit. 
When  our  misfortunes  came,  you  got  me  this  situation  with  Mrs. 
Millikeu — and,  and — don't  you  see  ? 

Touchit.  Well — what? 

Julia  {laughiru/).  I  think  it  is  best,  under  the  circumstances, 
that  the  ladies  here  should  suppose  I  am  engaged  to  be  married — or 
— -or,  they  might  be — might  be  jealous,  you  understand.  Women  are 
sometimes  jealous  of  others — especially  mothers  and  mothers-in-law. 

Touchit.  Oh,  you  arch-schemer  !  And  it  is  for  that  you  cover 
up  that  beautiful  hair  of  yours,  and  wear  that  demure  cap  1 

Julia  {slyly).  I  am  subject  to  rheumatism  in  the  head,  Captain 
Touchit. 

Touchit.  It  is  for  that  you  put  on  the  spectacles,  and  make 
yourself  look  a  hundred  years  old  1 

Julia.  My  eyes  are  weak,  Captain  Touchit. 

Touchit.  Weak  with  weeping  for  Tom  Flight.  You  hypocrite  ! 
Show  me  your  eyes  ! 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  23 

Miss  P.  Nonsense  ! 

ToucHiT.  Show  me  your  eyes,  I  say,  or  I'll  tell  about  Tom 
Flight,  and  that  he  has  been  married  at  Madras  these  two  years. 

Miss  P.   Oh,  you  horrid  man  !     {Takes  glasses  off.)     There  ! 

ToucHiT.  Translucent  or])s !  beams  of  iiashing  light !  lovely 
lashes  veiling  celestial  brightness  !  No,  they  haven't  cried  much 
for  Tom  Flight,  that  fliithle.ss  captain  !  nor  for  Lawrence  O'Pieilly, 
that  killing  Editor.  It  is  lucky  you  keep  the  glasses  on  tlieni,  or 
they  would  transfix  Horace  Milliken,  my  friend  the  widower  here. 
Do  you  always  wear  them  wlien  you  are  alone  with  him  1 

Miss  P.  I  never  am  alone  with  him.  Bless  me !  If  Lady 
Kicklebury  thought  my  eyes  were  — well,  well — you  know  what  I 
mean,— if  she  thought  her  son-in-law  looked  at  me,  I  should  be 
turned  out  of  doors  the  next  day,  I  am  sure  I  should.  And  then, 
poor  Mr.  Milliken  !  he  never  looks  at  me — Heaven  help  him ! 
Why,  he  can't  see  me  for  her  Ladyship's  nose  and  awful  caps  and 
ribbons !  He  sits  and  looks  at  the  portrait  yonder,  and  sighs 
so.  He  thinks  that  he  is  lost  in  grief  for  his  wife  at  this  very 
moment. 

ToucHiT.  What  a  woman  that  was — eh,  Julia'? — that  departed 
angel !     What  a  temper  she  had  before  her  departure  ! 

Miss  P.  But  the  wind  was  tempered  to  the  lamb.  If  she  was 
angry — the  lamb  was  so  very  lamblike,  and  meek,  and  fleecy. 

ToucHiT.  And  what  a  desjierate  tlirt  the  departed  angel  was  ! 
I  knew  half-a-dozen  fellows,  before  her  marriage,  whom  she  threw 
over  because  Milliken  was  so  rich. 

Miss  P.  She  was  consistent  at  least,  and  did  not  change  after 
marriage,  as  some  ladies  do ;  but  flirted,  as  you  call  it,  just  as  much 
as  before.  At  Paris,  young  Mr.  Verney,  the  attach^,  was  never  out 
of  the  house :  at  Rome,  Mr.  Beard,  the  artist,  was  always  drawing 
pictures  of  her :  at  Naples,  when  poor  Mr.  M.  went  away  to  look 
after  his  aff"airs  at  Saint  Petersburg,  little  Count  Posilippo  was  for 
ever  coming  to  learn  English  and  practise  duets.  She  scarcely  ever 
saw  the  poor  children.  {Changing  her  manner  as  Lady  Kicklebury 
enters.)     Hush — my  Lady  ! 

ToucHiT.  You  may  well  say,  "  poor  children,"  deprived  of  such 
a  woman  !  Miss  Prior,  whom  I  knew  in  very  early  days— as  your 
Ladyship  knows — was  sjjeaking— was  speaking  of  the  loss  our 
poor  friend  sustained. 

Lady  K.  Ali,  sir,  what  a  loss  !  [Looking  at  the  picture. 

TouoHiT.   Wliat  a  woman  she  was — what  a  superior  creature  ! 

Lady  K.  A  creature — an  angel ! 

Touch  IT.  Mercy  upon  us !  how  she  and  my  Lady  used  to 
(juarrel !  (Aside.)     What  a  temper  ! 


24      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Lady  K.  Hni — oh  yes — what  a  temper  !  {Rather  doubt/ all >/ 
at  first.) 

ToucHiT.  What  a  loss  to  Milliken  and  tlie  darliug  cliildren  ! 

Miss  Prior.  Luckily  they  have  you  \\\t\\  them,  madam. 

Lady  K.  And  I  will  stay  with  tliem,  Miss  Prior ;  I  will  stay 
with  them  !     I  will  never  part  from  Horace,  I  am  determined. 

Miss  P.  Ah  !  I  am  very  glad  you  stay,  for  if  I  had  not  you  for 
a  protector,  I  think  you  know  I  must  go.  Lady  Kieklebury.  I 
think  you  know  there  are  those  who  would  forget  my  attacliinent  to 
these  darling  children,  my  services  to — to  her — and  dismiss  the  poor 
governess.  But  while  you  stay  I  can  stay,  denr  Lady  Kieklebury  ! 
With  you  to  defend  me  from  jealousy  I  need  not  q%ute  be  afraid. 

Lady  K.  Of  Mrs.  Bonnington?  Of  Mr.  Milliken's  mother  ;  of 
the  parson's  wife  who  writes  out  his  stupid  sermons,  and  has  half- 
a-dozen  children  of  her  own  1  I  sliould  think  not  indeed  !  /  am 
the  natural  protector  of  these  children.  /  am  their  mother.  / 
have  no  husband.  You  stay  in  this  house,  Miss  Prior.  You  are  a 
faithful  attached  creature — though  you  were  sent  in  by  somebody  I 
don't  like  very  much. 

YPointiag  to  Touchit,  ivho  toent  off  lauf/hing  when  Julia 
began  her  S2)eech,  and  is  7iow  looking  at  prints,  (fee, 
in  next  room. 

Miss  P.  Captain  Touchit  may  not  be  in  all  things  what  one 
could  wish.  But  his  kindness  has  formed  tlie  happiness  of  my  life 
in  making  me  acquainted  with  you,  ma'am  :  and  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  have  me  be  ungrateful  to  Iiim. 

Lady  K.  A  most  highly  principled  young  woman. 

[Goes  out  in  garden  and  ivalks  up)  and  down  xvith 
Captain  Touchit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

Miss  P.  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  you  are  come,  Mrs.  Bonnington  ! 
Have  you  brought  me  that  pretty  hymn  you  promised  me  %  You 
always  keep  your  promises,  even  to  poor  governesses.  I  read  dear 
Mr.  Bonnington's  sermon  !  It  was  so  interesting  that  I  really 
could  not  think  of  going  to  sleep  until  I  had  read  it  all  through ;  it 
was  dcliglitful,  but  oh  !  it's  still  better  when  he  preaches  it !  I 
hope  I  did  not  do  wrong  in  copying  a  part  of  it  ?  I  wish  to  impress 
it  on  the  children.  There  are  some  worldly  influences  at  work  with 
them,  dear  madam  {looking  at  Lady  K.  in  the  garden)  which  I  do 
my  feeble  effort  to — to  modify.     I  wish  yow  could  come  oftener. 

Mrs.  B.  I  will  try,  my  dear — I  Avill  try.  Emily  has  sweet 
dispositions. 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  25 

Miss  P.  Ah,  she  takes  after  her  Grandmamma  Bonnington  ! 

Mrs.  B.  But  George  was  sadly  fractious  just  now  in  the  school- 
room because  I  tried  him  with  a  tract. 

Miss  P.  Let  us  hope  for  better  times !  Do  be  with  your 
children,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington,  as  constantly  as  ever  you  can, 
for  my  sake  as  well  as  theirs  !  /  want  protection  and  advice  as 
well  as  tliey  do.  The  governess,  dear  lady,  looks  up  to  you  as  well 
as  the  pupils  ;  she  wants  tlie  teaching  whicli  you  and  dear  Mr. 
Bonnington  can  give  her !  Ah,  wliy  could  not  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bonnington  come  and  live  here,  I  often  think  !  T!ie  children  would 
have  companions  in  their  dear  young  uncles  and  aunts ;  so  pleasant 
it  would  be.  The  house  is  quite  large  enougli :  that  is,  if  her 
Ladyshiji  did  not  occupy  the  three  south  rooms  in  the  left  wing. 
Ah,  why,  why  couldn't  you  come  ? 

Mrs.  B.  You  are  a  kind  affectionate  creature,  Miss  Prior.  I  do 
not  very  much  like  the  gentleman  who  recommended  you  to  Arabella, 
you  know.  But  I  do  think  he  sent  my  son  a  good  governess  for  his 
cliildren.  \_Ladies  walk  up  and  down  in  front  garden. 

ToucHiT  enters. 

ToucHiT.  Miss  Julia  Prior,  you  are  a  wonder !  I  watch  you 
witli  respect  and  surprise. 

Miss  P.  Me  !  wliat  have  I  done  ?  a  poor  friendless  governess — • 
respect  me  1 

ToucHiT.  I  have  a  mind  to  tell  those  two  ladies  what  I  think 
of  Miss  Julia  Prior.  If  they  knew  you  as  I  know  you,  0  Julia 
Prior,  what  a  short  reign  yours  would  be  ! 

Miss  P.  I  have  to  manage  them  a  little.  Each  separately  it  is 
not  so  difficult.  But  when  they  are  togetlier,  oh,  it  is  very  hard  some- 
times. 

Enter  Millikex  dressed,  shaJces  hands  with  ]\Iiss  P. 

MiLLlKEN.  Miss  Prior  !  are  you  well  ?  Have  the  chiMren  been 
good  ?  and  learned  all  their  lessons  ? 

Miss  P.   The  children  ai'e  pretty  good,  sir. 

MiLLiKEN.  Well,  that's  a  great  deal  as  times  go.  Do  not 
bother  them  with  too  much  learning,  ]\Iiss  Prior.  Let  them  have 
an  easy  life.     Time  enough  for  trouble  when  age  comes. 

Enter  John. 
John.  Dinner,  sir.  [And  exit. 

MiLLiKEX.   Dinner,  ladies.     My  Lady  Kicklebury. 

l^Gives  arm  to  Lady  K. 


26  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

Lady  K.  My  dear  Horace,  you  shouldnt  sliakc  hands  with 
Miss  Prior.  You  should  keep  people  of  that  class  at  a  distance, 
my  dear  creature. 

[They  fjo  in  to  dinner,  Captain  Touchit  folloivinfj  with 
Mrs.  Bonnincjton.  As  they  go  out,  enter  Mary  with 
children's  tea-tray,  &c..  Children  folloiviny,  and  after 
them  Mrs.  Prior.     Mary  gives  her  tea. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Tliauk  you,  Mary  !  You  are  so  very  kind  !  Oh, 
what  delicious  tea ! 

George.  I  say,  Mrs.  Prior,  I  daresay  you  would  like  to  dine 
best,  wouldn't  youl 

Mrs.  p.  Bless  you,  my  darling  love,  I  had  my  dinner  at  one 
o'clock  with  uiy  children  at  home. 

George.  So  had  we  :  but  we  go  in  to  dessert  very  often  ;  and 
then  don't  we  have  cakes  and  oranges  and  candied  peel  and 
macaroons  and  things  !  We  are  not  to  go  in  to-day ;  because  Bella 
ate  so  many  strawberries  she  made  herself  ill. 

Bella.  So  did  you. 

George.  I'm  a  man,  and  men  eat  more  than  women,  twice  as 
much  as  wonaen.  When  I'm  a  man  I'll  eat  as  much  cake  as  ever 
I  like.     I  say,  Mary,  give  us  the  marmalade. 

Mrs.  p.  Oh,  what  nice  marmalade !  /  know  of  some  poor 
children — 

Miss  P.   Mamma  !  don't,  mamma.     {In  an  imploring  tone.) 

Mrs.  p.  I  know  of  two  poor  children  at  home,  who  have  very 
seldom  nice  marmalade  and  cake,  young  people. 

George.  You  mean  Adolphus  and  Fi'ederick  and  Amelia,  your 
children.     Well,  they  shall  have  marmalade  and  cake. 

Bella.  Oh  yes  !     I'll  give  them  mine. 

Mrs.  p.  Darling  dearest  child  ! 

George  {his  mouth  full).  I  won't  give  'em  mine ;  but  they 
can  have  another  pot,  you  know.  You  have  always  got  a  basket 
with  you,  Mrs.  Prior.  I  know  you  have.  You  had  it  that  day 
you  took  the  cold  fowl. 

Mrs.  p.  For  the  poor  blind  black  man  !  oh,  how  thankful  he 
was  ! 

George.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  for  a  black  man.  Mary, 
get  us  another  pot  of  marmalade. 

Mary.  I  don't  know.  Master  George. 

George.  I  will  have  another  pot  of  marmalade.  If  you  don't, 
I'll — I'll  smash  everything — I  will. 

Bella.  Oh,  you  naughty  rude  boy  ! 

George.  Hold  your  tongue.  I  will  have  it.  Mary  shall  go 
find  get  it. 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  27 

Mrs.  p.  Do  humour  him,  Mary  ;  and  I'm  sure  my  poor  children 
at  home  will  be  the  -better  for  it. 

George.  There's  your  basket !  now  put  this  cake  in,  and  this 
pat  of  butter,  and  this  sugar.  Hurray,  hurray  !  Oh,  what  jolly  fun  ! 
Tell  Adolphus  and  Amelia  I  sent  it  to  them — tell  em  they  shall  never 
want  for  anything  as  long  as  George  Kieklebui  Millikeii,  Esquire, 
can  give  it  'em.    Did  Adolphus  like  my  grey  coat  that  I  didn't  want? 

Miss  P.  You  did  not  give  him  your  new  grey  coat  'i 

George.  Don't  you  s})eak  to  me ;  I'm  going  to  school — I'm  not 
going  to  have  no  more  governesses  soon. 

Mrs.  p.  Oh,  my  dear  Master  George,  what  a  nice  coat  it  is, 
and  liow  well  my  poor  boy  looked  in  it ! 

Miss  P.  Don't,  mamma  !  I  pray  and  entreat  you  not  to  take 
the  things ! 

Enter  John  from  dining-room  with  a  tray. 

John.  Some  cream,  some  jelly,  a  little  champagne.  Miss  Prior ! 
I  thought  you  might  like  some. 

George.  Oh,  jolly  !  give  us  hold  of  the  jelly  !  give  us  a  glass 
of  champagne. 

John.   I  will  not  give  you  any. 

George.  I'll  smash  every  glass  in  the  room,  if  you  don't ;  I'll 
cut  my  fingers  ;  I'll  poison  myself — there  ! — I'll  eat  all  this  sealing- 
wax  if  you  don't,  and  it's  rank  poison,  you  know  it  is. 

Mrs.  p.  My  dear  Master  George  !  [Exit  John. 

George.  Ha,  ha  !  I  knew  you'd  give  it  me  ;  another  boy  taught 
me  that. 

Bella.  And  a  very  naughty  rude  boy. 

George.  He,  he,  he  !  hold  your  tongue,  miss  !  And  said  he 
always  got  wine  so :  and  so  1  used  to  do  it  to  my  poor  mamma, 
Mrs.  Prior.     Usedn't  to  like  manmia  much. 

Bella.  Oh,  you  wicked  boy  ! 

George.  She  usedn't  to  see  us  much.  She  used  to  say  I  tried 
her  nerves ;  what's  nerves,  Mrs.  Prior  1  Give  us  some  more 
champagne  !  Will  have  it !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  ain't  it  jolly  1  Now  I'll 
go  out  and  have  a  run  in  the  garden.  [Buns  into  ijarden. 

Mrs.  p.  And  you,  my  dear? 

Bella.  I  shall  go  and  resume  the  perusal  of  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  which  my  grandpapa,  Mr.  Bonnington,  sent  me. 

[Exit  Arabella. 

Miss  P.  How  those  children  are  spoilt !  Goodness,  what  can 
I  do?  If  I  correct  one,  he  tlies  to  Grandmamma  Kicklebury  ;  if 
I   speak   to   another,    she   appeals   to  Grandmamma   Bonnington. 


28      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

When  I  was  alone  with  them,  I  had  them  in  something  like  order. 
Now,  between  the  one  grandmother  and  the  other,  the  children  are 
going  to  ruin,  and  so  would  the  house  too,  but  that  Howell — that 
odd,  rude,  but  honest  and  intelligent  creature,  I  must  say — keeps 
it  up.  It  is  wonderful  how  a  person  in  his  rank  of  life  should  have 
instructed  himself  so.  He  really  knows — I  really  think  he  knows 
more  than  I  do  myself. 

Mrs.  p.  Julia  dear  ! 

Miss  P.   What  is  it,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  p.  Your  little  sister  wants  some  underclothing  sadly, 
Julia  dear,  and  poor  Adolphus's  shoes  are  quite  worn  out. 

Miss  P.   I  thought  so ;  I  have  given  you  all  I  could,  mamma. 

Mrs.  p.  Yes,  my  love  !  you  are  a  good  love,  and  generous, 
Heaven  knows,  to  your  poor  old  mother  who  has  seen  better  days. 
If  we  had  not  wanted,  would  I  have  ever  allowed  you  to  be  a 
governess — a  poor  degraded  governess  1  If  that  brute  O'Reilly  who 
lived  on  our  second  floor  had  not  behaved  so  shamefully  wicked  to 
you,  and  married  Miss  Flack,  the  singer,  might  you  not  have  been 
editress  of  the  Chamjnon  of  Liberty  at  this  very  moment,  and  had 
your  opera-box  every  night  ? 

[.S'Ae  drinks  champagne  ivhile  talking,  and  excites  herself. 

Miss  P.  Don't  take  that,  mamma ! 

Mrs.  p.  Don't  take  it  1  why,  it  costs  nothing ;  Milliken  can 
afford  it.  Do  you  suppose  I  get  champagne  every  day  1  I  might 
have  had  it  as  a  girl  when  I  first  married  your  father,  and  we  kep' 
our  gig  and  horse,  and  lived  at  Clapham,  and  had  the  best  of 
everything.  But  the  coal-trade  is  not  what  it  was,  Julia.  We 
met  with  misfortunes,  Julia,  and  we  went  into  poverty  :  and  your 
poor  father  went  into  the  Bench  for  twenty-three  months — two  year 
all  but  a  month  he  did— and  my  poor  girl  was  obliged  to  dance  at 
the  "  Coburg  Theatre" — yes,  you  were,  at  ten  shiUings  a  week,  in 
the  Oriental  ballet  of  "  The  Bulbul  and  the  Rose  " :  you  were,  my 
poor  darling  child  ! 

Miss  P.  Husli,  hush,  mamma  ! 

Mrs.  p.  And  we  kep'  a  lodging-house  in  Bury  Street,  Saint 
James's,  which  your  father's  brother  furnished  for  us,  who  was  an 
extensive  oil-merchant.  He  brought  you  up ;  and  afterwards  he 
quarrelled  with  my  poor  James,  Robert  Prior  did,  and  he  died,  not 
leaving  us  a  shilling.  And  my  dear  eldest  boy  went  into  a  wine- 
merchant's  office  :  and  my  poor  darling  Julia  became  a  governess, 
when  you  had  had  the  best  of  education  at  Clapham ;  you  had, 
Julia.  And  to  think  that  you  were  obliged,  my  blessed  thing,  to 
go  on  in  the  Oriental  ballet  of  "The  Rose  anil  the  Bui " 

Miss  P.   Mamma,  hush,  hush  !  forget  that  story. 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      29 

Enter  Page  from  dining-room. 

Page.  Miss  Prior !  please,  the  ladies  are  coming  from  the 
dining-room.  Mrs.  P>.  have  liad  her  two  glasses  of  port,  and  her 
Ladyship  is  now  a-telling  the  story  about  the  Prince  of  Wales  when 
she  danced  with  him  at  Carlton  House.  \Exit  Page. 

Miss  P.  Quick,  quick !  There,  take  your  basket !  Put  on 
your  bonnet,  and  good  night,  mamma.  Here,  here  is  a  half- 
sovereign  and  three  shillings :  it  is  all  the  money  I  have  in  the 
world  ;  take  it,  and  buy  the  shoes  for  Adolphus. 

Mrs.  p.  And  the  underclothing,  my  love — little  Amelia's  under- 
clothing ? 

Miss  P.  We  will  see  about  it.  Good  night.  (Kisses  her.) 
Don't  be  seen  here, — Lady  K.  doesn't  like  it. 

Enter  Gentlemen  and  Ladies /rom  dining-room. 

Lady  K.  We  follow  the  Continental  fashion.  We  don't  sit 
after  dinner,  Captain  Toucliit. 

ToucHiT.  Confound  the  Continental  fashion  !  I  like  to  sit  a 
little  while  after  dinner.     {Aside.) 

Mrs.  B.  So  does  my  dear  Mr.  Bonnington,  Captain  Touchit. 
He  likes  a  little  port  wine  after  dinner. 

Touchit.   I'm  not  surprised  at  it,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  B.  When  did  you  say  your  son  was  coming,  Lady 
Kicklebury  1 

Lady  K.  My  Clarence  1     He  wall  be  here  immediately,  I  hope, 
the  dear  boy  !     You  know  my  Clarence  1 
Touchit.  Yes,  ma'am. 

Lady  K.  And  like  him,  I'm  sure.  Captain  Touchit !  Every- 
body does  like  Clarence  Kicklebury. 

Touchit.  The  confounded  young  scamp  !  I  say,  Horace,  do 
you  like  your  brother-in-law  1 

MiLLiKEN.  Well — I — I  can't  say — I — like  him — in  fact,  I 
don't.     But  that's  no  reason  why  his  mother  shouldn't. 

[^During  this,  IloiveU,  ^jrecerZerf  by  Btdheley,  hmids  round 
coffee.      The  garden  xvithout  has  darJcened,  as  if  even- 
ing.    Bvdlceleg  is  going  aioay  tvithont  offering  coffee  to 
Miss  Prior.     John  stamjts  on  his  foot,  and  points  to 
her.     Captain  Touchit,  laughing,  goes  np)  and  talks  to 
her  now  the  servants  are  gone. 
Mrs.  B.   Horace !     I  must  tell  you  that  the  waste  at  your 
table  is  shocking.     What  is  the  need  of  oj)ening  all  this  wine  1    You 
and  Lady  Kicklebury  were  the  only  persons  who  took  champagne. 


30  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

ToucHiT.  I  never  drink  it^never  tou(;h  the  rubbish  !  Too 
old  a  stager ! 

Lady  K.  Port,  I  think,  is  your  favourite,  Mrs.  Bonnington  1 

Mrs.  B.  My  dear  lady,  I  do  not  mean  that  you  sliould  not 
have  champagne,  if  you  like.  Pray,  pray,  don't  be  angry  !  But 
why  on  earth,  for  you,  who  take  so  little,  and  Horace,  who  only 
drinks  it  to  keep  you  company,  should  not  Howell  open  a  pint 
instead  of  a  great  large  bottle  1 

Lady  K.  Oh,  Howell !  Howell !  We  nuist  not  mention  Howell, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington.  Howell  is  faultless  !  Howell  has  the 
keys  of  everything !  Howell  is  not  to  be  controlled  in  anything  ! 
Howell  is  to  be  at  liberty  to  be  rude  to  my  servant  ! 

Milliken.  Is  that  all  1  I  am  sure  I  should  have  thought  your 
man  was  big  enough  to  resent  any  rudeness  from  poor  little  Howell. 

Lady  K.  Horace  !  Excuse  me  for  saying  that  you  don't  know 
— the — the  class  of  servant  to  whom  Bulkeley  belongs.  I  had 
him,  as  a  great  favour,  from  Lord  Toddleby.  That  class  of  servant 
is  accustomed  generally  not  to  go  out  single. 

Milliken.  Unless  they  are  two  behind  a  carriage-perch,  they 
pine  away,  as  one  love-bird  does  Avithout  his  mate  ! 

Lady  K.  No  doubt !  no  doubt !  I  only  say  you  are  not 
accustomed  here — in  this  kind  of  establishment,  you  understand — 
to  that  class  of ■ 

Mrs.  B.  Lady  Kicklebury  !  is  my  son's  establishment  not  good 
enough  for  any  powdered  monster  in  England  1  Is  the  house  of  a 
British  merchant  1 

Lady  K.  My  dear  creature  !  my  dear  creatui-e  !  it  is  the  house 
of  a  British  merchant,  and  a  very  comfortable  house. 

Mrs.  B.  Yes,  as  you  find  it. 

Lady  K.  Yes,  as  I  find  it,  when  I  come  to  take  care  of  my 
departed  angel's  children,  Mrs.  Bonnington — (pointing  to  jjicture) 
— of  tlbat  dear  seraph's  orphans,  Mrs.  Bonnington.  You  cannot. 
You  have  other  duties — other  children — a  husband  at  liome  in 
delicate  health,  who— — 

Mrs.  B.  Lady  Kicklebury,  no  one  shall  say  I  don't  take  care 
of  my  dear  husband  ! 

Milliken.  My  dear  mother !  My  dear  Lady  Kicklebury ! 
{To  T.  who  has  come  fortmrd.)  They  spar  so  every  night  they 
meet,  Touchit,     Ain't  it  hard  1 

Lady  K.  I  say  you  do  take  care  of  Mr.  Bonnington,  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  my  dear  creature  !  and  that  is  why  you  can't  attend 
to  Horace.  And  as  he  is  of  a  very  easy  tem])er — except  some- 
times with  his  poor  Arabella's  mother — he  allows  all  his  trades- 
men to  cheat  him,  all  his  servants  to  cheat  him,  Howell  to  be  rude 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  31 

to  everybody — to  me  amongst  otlier  people,  and  why  not  to  my 
servant  Bulkeley,  with  whom  Lord  To^kUeby's  groom  of  the 
cliambers  gave  me  the  very  highest  cliaracter  1 

Mks.  B.  I'm  surprised  that  noblemen  have  grooms  in  their 
chambers.  I  should  tliink  they  were  mucli  better  in  the  stables. 
I  am  sure  I  always  think  so  when  we  dine  with  Doctor  Clinker. 
His  man  does  bring  such  a  smell  of  the  stable  with  him. 

Lady  K.  He  !  he  !  you  mistake,  my  dearest  creature  !  Your 
poor  mother  mistakes,  my  good  Horace.  You  have  lived  in  a 
quiet  and  most  respectable  sjihere — but  not — not 

Mks.  B.  Not  what,  Lady  Kicklebury?  We  have  lived  at 
Richmond  twenty  years — in  my  late  husband's  time — when  we 
saw  a  great  deal  of  company,  and  when  this  dear  Horace  was  a 
dear  boy  at  Westminster  School.  And  we  have  2'^'d  for  every- 
thing we  have  had  for  twenty  years,  and  we  have  owed  not  a 
penny  to  any  ti-adesman,  though  we  mayn't  have  had  j^ov'dered 
footmen  six  feet  hl<ih,  who  were  impertinent  to  all  the  maids  in 

the  place Don't !  I   rvill  s])eak,    Horace — but  servants  who 

loved  us,  and  who  lived  in  our  families. 

MiLLiKEN.  Mamma,  now,  my  dear  good  old  mother  !  I  am 
sure  Lady  Kicklebury  meant  no  harm. 

Lady  K.  Me !  my  dear  Horace  !  harm  !  What  harm  could  I 
mean*? 

MiLLiKEN.  Come  !  let  us  have  a  game  at  whist.  Touchit,  will 
you  make  a  fourth  1  They  go  on  so  every  night  almost.  Ain't  it 
a  pity,  now  1 

Touchit.  Miss  Prior  generally  plays,  doesn't  she  ? 

MiLLiKEN.  And  a  very  good  player,  too.  But  I  thought  you 
might  like  it. 

Touchit.  AVell,  not  exactly.  I  don't  like  sixpenny  points, 
Horace,  or  quarrelling  with  old  dragons  about  the  odd  trick.  I 
will  go  and  smoke  a  cigar  on  the  terrace,  and  contemplate  the 
silver  Thames,  the  darkling  woods,  the  starry  hosts  of  heaven.  I 
• — I  like  smoking  better  than  playing  whist. 

[J/illiken  rivf/s  bell. 

MiLLiKEN.  Ah,  George  !  you're  not  fit  for  domestic  felicity. 

Touchit.  No,  not  exactly. 

Unter  Howell. 

MiLLiKEN.  Lights  and  a  whist  table.  Oh,  I  see  you  bring 
'em.  You  know  everything  I  want.  He  knows  everything  I  want, 
Howell  does.     Let  us  cut.     Miss  Prior,  you  and  I  are  partners  ! 


ACT   II 

Scene. — As  he/ore. 

LADY  K.  Don't  smoke,  you  naughty  boy  !  I  don't  like  it. 
Besides,  it  will  encourage  your  brother-in-law  to  smoke. 
'  Clarence  K.  Anything  to  oblige  you,  I'm  sure.  But 
can't  do  witliout  it,  mother ;  it's  good  for  my  health.  When  I  was 
in  the  Plungers,  our  doctor  used  to  say,  "  You  ought  never  to  smoke 
more  than  eight  cigars  a  day  " — an  order,  you  know,  to  do  it — 
don't  you  see  1 

Lady  K.  Ah,  my  child  !  I  am  very  glad  you  are  not  with 
those  unfortunate  people  in  the  East. 

K.  So  am  I.  Sold  out  just  in  time.  Much  better  fun  being 
here,  than  liaving  the  cholera  at  Scutari.  Nice  house,  Milliken's. 
Snob,  but  good  fellow — good  cellar,  doosid  good  cook.  Really,  that 
salmi  yesterday, — couldn't  have  it  better  done  at  the  "Rag"  now. 
You  have  got  into  good  quarters  here,  mother. 

Lady  K.  The  meals  are  very  good,  and  the  house  is  very  good ; 
the  manners  are  not  of  the  first  order.  But  what  can  you  expect 
of  City  people  1  I  always  told  your  poor  dear  sister,  when  slie 
married  Mr,  Milliken,  that  she  might  look  for  everything  substan- 
tial,— but  not  manners.     Poor  dear  Arabella  would  marry  him. 

K.  Would!  that  is  a  good,  one,  mamma!  Why,  you  made 
her  !  It's  a  dozen  years  ago.  But  I  recollect,  when  I  came  home 
from  Eton,  seeing  her  crying  because  Charley  Tufton 

Lady  K.  Mr.  Tufton  had  not  a  shilling  to  bless  himself  Avith. 
The  marriage  was  absurd  and  impossible. 

K.  He  hadn't  a  shilling  tlien.  I  guess  he  has  plenty  now. 
Elder  brother  killed,  out  hunting.  Father  dead.  Tuf  a  baronet, 
with  four  thousand  a  year  if  he's  a  shilling. 

Lady  K.  Not  so  much. 

K.  Four  thousand  if  it's  a  shilling.  Why,  the  property  adjoins 
Kicklebury's— I  ought  to  know.  I've  shot  over  it  a  thousand 
times.  Heh  !  /  remember,  when  I  was  quite  a  yoimg  'un,  how 
Arabella  used  to  go  out  into  Tufton  Park  to  meet  Charley — and  he 
is  a  doosid  good  fellow,  and  a  gentlemanlike  fellow,  and  a  doosid 
deal  better  than  this  City  fellow, 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB       33 

Lady  K.  If  you  don't  like  this  City  fellow,  Clarence,  why  do 
you  come  here  1  wjiy  didn't  you  stoji  with  your  elder  brother  at 
kicklebury  1 

K.  Why  didn't  11  Why  didn't  i/ou  stop  at  Kicklebury, 
mammal  Because  you  had  notice  to  quit.  Serious  daughter-in- 
law,  quarrels  about  management  of  the  house — row  in  the  building. 
My  brother  interferes,  and  politely  requests  mamma  to  sjjorten  her 
visit.  So  it  is  with  your  other  two  daughters ;  so  it  was  with 
Arabella  when  she  was  alive.  What  shindies  you  used  to  have 
with  her.  Lady  Kicklebury  !  Heh  !  I  had  a  row  with  my  brother 
and  sister  about  a  confounded  little  nursery-maid. 

Lady  K.  Clarence ! 

K.  And  so  I  had  notice  to  quit  too.  And  I'm  in  very  good 
quarters  here,  and  I  intend  to  stay  in  'em,  mamma.     I  say 

Lady  K.  What  do  you  say  ? 

K.  Since  I  sold  out,  you  know,  and  the  regiment  went  abroad, 
confound  me,  the  brutes  at  the  "  Rag  "  will  hardly  speak  to  me  ! 
I  was  so  ill,  I  couldn't  go.  Who  the  doose  can  live  the  life  I've 
led  and  keep  health  enough  for  that  infernal  Crimea?  Besides, 
how  could  I  helji  if?  I  was  so  cursedly  in  debt  that  I  was  obliged 
to  have  the  money,  you  know.      You  hadn't  got  any. 

Lady  K.  Not  a  halfpenny,  my  darling.  I  am  dreadfully  in 
debt  myself. 

K.  I  know  you  are.  So  am  I.  My  brother  wouldn't  give  me 
any,  not  a  dump.  Hang  him  !  Said  he  had  his  children  to  look 
to.  Milliken  wouldn't  advance  me  any  more — said  I  did  hiiri  in 
that  horse  transaction.  He  !  he !  he  !  so  I  did  !  AVhat  had  I  to 
do  but  to  sell  ouf?  And  the  fellows  cut  me,  by  Jove!  Ain't  it 
too  bad  ?     I'll  take  my  name  of!'  the  "  Rag,"  I  will,  though. 

Lady  K.  We  must  sow  ovu'  wild  oats,  and  we  must  sober 
down ;  and  we  must  live  here,  where  the  living  is  very  good  and 
very  cheap,  Clarence,  you  naughty  boy  !  And  we  must  get  you  a 
rich  wife.  Did  you  see  at  church  yesterday  that  young  woman  in 
light  green,  with  rather  red  hair  and  a  ])ink  bonnet  ? 

K.  I  was  asleep,  ma'am,  most  of  the  time,  or  I  was  bookin'  up 
the  odds  for  the  Chester  Cup.  When  I'm  bookin'  up,  I  think  of 
nothin'  else,  ma'am, — nothin'. 

Lady  K.  That  was  Miss  Brocksopp — Briggs,  Brown,  and 
Brocksopp,  the  great  sugar-bakers.  They  say  she  will  have  eighty 
thousand  pound.     We  will  ask  her  to  dinner  here. 

K.  I  say — why  the  doose  do  you  have  such  old  women  to 
dinner  here?  Why  don't  you  get  some  pretty  girls?  Such  a  set 
of  confounded  old  fruui])s  as  eat  Milliken's  mutton  I  never  saw. 
There's  you,  and  his  old  mother  Mrs.   Bonnington,  and  old  Mrs. 

3 


34  THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

Fogram,  and  old  Miss  What's-her-name,  the  woman  with  the  squint 
eye,  and  that  immense  Mrs.  Crowder.  It's  so  stoopid,  tliat  if  it 
weren't  for  Tonchit  coming  down  sometimes,  and  the  billiards  and 
boatin',  I  sliould  die  here — expire,  by  gad  !  Why  don't  you  have 
some  pretty  women  into  the  house,  Lady  Kicklebury  1 

Lady  K.  Why  !  Do  you  think  I  want  that  picture  taken 
down  :  and  another  Mrs.  Milliken "?  Wisehead  !  If  Horace  married 
again,  would  he  be  your  banker,  and  keej)  this  house,  now  that  un- 
grateful son  of  mine  has  turned  me  out  of  liis  1  No  jjretty  woman 
shall  come  into  the  house  whilst  I  am  here. 

K.  Governess  seems  a  pretty  woman  :  weak  eyes,  bad  figure, 
poky,  badly  dressed,  but  doosid  pretty  woman. 

Lady  K.  Bah  !  There  is  no  danger  from  Aer.  She  is  a  most 
faithful  creature,  attached  to  me  beyond  everything.  And  her 
eyes — her  eyes  are  w^eak  with  crying  for  some  young  man  who  is 
in  India.  She  has  his  miniature  in  her  room,  locked  up  in  one  of 
her  drawers. 

K.  Then  how  the  doose  did  you  come  to  see  if? 

Lady  K.  We  see  a  number  of  things,  Clarence.  Wiil  you 
drive  with  me  1 

K.  Not  as  I  knows  on,  thank  you.  No,  ma  ;  drivin's  too  slow  : 
and  you're  going  to  call  on  two  or  three  old  dowagers  in  the  Park  1 
Thank  your  Ladyship  for  the  delightful  offer. 

Fnter  John. 

John.  Please,  sir,  here's  the  man  with  the  bill  for  the  boats ; 
two  pound  three. 

K.  Damn  it,  pay  it — don't  bother  me  1 

John.  Haven't  got  the  money,  sir. 

Lady  K.  Howell !  I  saw  Mr.  Milliken  give  you  a  cheque  for 
twenty-five  pounds  before  he  went  into  town  this  morning.  Look, 
sir.  (Huns,  o2:iens  drawer,  takes  out  cheque-booTc.)  There  it  is, 
marked  "  Howell,  £25." 

John.  Would  your  Ladyship  like  to  step  down  into  my  pantry 
and  see  wdiat  I've  paid  with  the  twenty-five  pounds  ?  Did  my 
master  leave  any  orders  that  your  Ladyship  was  to  inspect  my 
accounts  ? 

Lady  K.  Step  down  into  the  pantry  !  inspect  your  accounts  ? 
I  never  heard  such  impertinence.     What  do  you  mean,  sir  ? 

K.  Dammy,  sir,  what  do  you  mean "? 

John.  I  thought  as  her  Ladyship  kept  a  heye  over  my  master's 
private  book,  she  might  like  to  look  at  mine  too. 

Lady  K.  Upon  my  word,  this  insolence  is  too  much. 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  35 

John.  I  bey  your  Ladyship's  pardon.  I  am  sure  I  have  said 
nothing. 

K.  Said,  sir  !  your  manner  is  mutinous,  by  Jove,  sir  !  if  I  had 
you  in  the  regiment 

John.  I  understood  that  you  had  left  the  regiment,  sir,  just 
before  it  went  on  the  campaign,  sir. 

K.   Confound  you,  sir  !  [Starts  up. 

Lady  K.   Clarence,  my  child,  my  child ! 

John.  Your  Ladyship  needn't  l)e  alanned ;  I'm  a  little  man, 
my  Lady,  but  I  don't  think  Mr.  Clarence  was  a-goin'  for  to  hit  me, 
my  Lady ;  not  before  a  lady,  I'm  sure.  I  suppose,  sir,  that  you 
wo7i't  pay  the  boatman  1 

K.  No,  sir,  I  won't  pay  him,  nor  any  man  who  uses  this  sort 
of  damned  impertinence  ! 

John.  I  told  Bullocks,  sir,  I  thought  it  was  jest  ])ossible  you 
wouldn't.  [Uxit. 

K.   That's  a  nice  man,  that  is — an  impudent  villain  ! 

Lady  K.  Ruined  by  Horace's  weakness.  He  ruins  everybody, 
poor  good-natured  Horace  ! 

K.  Why  don't  you  get  rid  of  the  blackguard  1 

Lady  K.  There  is  a  time  for  all  things,  my  dear.  This  man 
is  very  convenient  to  Horace.  Mr.  Milliken  is  exceedingly  lazy, 
and  Howell  s])ares  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Some  day  or  otlier 
I  shall  take  all  this  domestic  trouble  oft"  his  hands.  But  not  yet : 
your  poor  brother-in-law  is  restive,  like  many  weak  men.  He  is 
subjected  to  other  influences :  his  odious  mother  thwarts  me  a 
great  deal. 

K.  Why,  you  used  to  be  the  dearest  friends  in  the  world.  I 
recollect  when  I  was  at  Eton 

Lady  K.  Were ;  but  friendsliip  don't  last  for  ever.  Mrs. 
Bonnington  and  I  have  had  serious  differences  since  I  came  to  live 
here  :  slie  has  a  natural  jealousy,  perhaps,  at  my  superintending  her 
son's  affairs.  When  she  ceases  to  visit  at  the  liouse,  as  she  very 
possibly  will,  things  will  go  more  easily ;  and  Mr.  Howell  will  go 
too,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  I  am  always  sorry  when  my  temper 
breaks  out,  as  it  will  sometimes. 

K.  Won't  it,  tliat's  all ! 

Lady  K.  At  his  insolence,  my  temper  is  high  ;  so  is  yours, 
ray  dear.     Calm  it  for  the  present,  especially  as  regards  Howell. 

K.  Gad  !  d'you  know  I  was  very  nearly  pitching  into  him  ? 
But  once,  one  night  in  the  Haymarket,  at  a  lobster-shop,  where  I 
was  with  some  fellows,  we  ciiaffed  some  other  fellows,  and  there 
was  one  fellah — quite  a  little  fellah — and  I  pitched  into  him,  and 
he  gave  me  the  most  confounded  lickin'  I  ever  had  in  my  life,  since 


36  THE  WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

my  brother  Kicklebury  licked  me  wlien  we  were  at  Eton  ;  and 
that,  you  see,  was  a  lesson  to  me,  ma'am.  Never  trust  those  little 
fellows,  never  cliaif  'em  :  dammy,  they  may  be  boxers. 

Lady  K.  You  quarrelsome  boy !  I  remember  you  coming 
home  with  your  naughty  head  so  bruised.  (Looks  at  watch.)  I 
must  go  now  to  take  my  drive.  \^E.rit  Lady  K. 

K.  I  owe  a  doose  of  a  tick  at  that  1)111  iard-room ;  I  shall  have 
tliat  boatman  duniiin'  me.  Why  hasn't  Milliken  got  any  horses  to 
ride?  Hang  him!  suppose  he  can't  ride — suppose  he's  a  tailoi. 
He  ain't  my  tailor,  though,  though  I  owe  him  a  doosid  deal  of 
money.  There  goes  mamma  with  that  darling  nephew  and  niece 
of  mine. 

Enter  Bulkeley. 

AVhy  haven't  you  gone  with  my  Lady,  you,  sir?  (to  Bulheley). 

Bulkeley.  My  Lady  have  a-took  the  pony-carriage,  sir;  Mrs. 
Bonnington  have  a-took  the  hopen  carriage  and  'orses,  sir,  this 
morniu',  which  the  Bishop  of  London  is.'olding  a  confirmation  at 
Teddington,  sir,  and  Mr.  Bonnington  is  attending  the  seriniony. 
And  I  have  told  Mr.  'Owell,  sir,  that  my  Lady  would  prefer  the 
hopen  carriage,  sir,  which  I  like  the  iKjxercise  myself,  sir,  and  that 
tlie  pony-carriage  was  good  enough  for  Mrs.  Bonnington,  sir ;  and 
Mr.  'Owell  was  very  hinsolent  to  me,  sir;  and  I  don't  think  I  can 
stay  in  the  'ouse  with  him. 

K.   Hold  your  jaw,  sir. 

Bulkeley.  Yes,  sir.  [^Exit  Bulkeley 

K.  I  wonder  wlio  that  governess  is — sang  rather  prettily 
last  night — wisli  she'd  come  and  sing  now — wish  she'd  come  and 
amuse  me — -I've  seen  her  face  before — wlierc  have  I  seen  her 
face? — it  ain't  at  all  a  bad  one.  What  shall  I  do?  dammy,  I'll 
read  a  book  :  I've  not  read  a  book  this  ever  so  long.  What's  here  ? 
[^Looks  anionyst  books,  selects  one,  sinks  down  in  easy  chair 
so  as  quite  to  he  lost. 

Enter  Miss  Prior. 

Miss  Prior.  Tliere's  peace  in  the  house !  those  noisy  children 
are  away  with  tlieir  grandmamma.  The  weather  is  beautiful,  and 
I  hope  they  will  take  a  long  drive.  Now  I  can  have  a  quiet  half- 
hour,  and  finish  that  dear  pretty  "  Ruth  " — oh,  how  it  makes  me 
cry,  that  pretty  story  ! 

l^Lays  down  her  bonnet  on  table — r/oes  to  yla.ss — takes  ojf 
cap  and  spectacles — arranges  her  hair — Clarence  has 
got  on  chair  looking  at  her 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB       37 

K.  By  Jove !  I  know  who  it  is  now !  Remember  her  as 
well  as  possible.  Four  years  ago,  when  little  Foxbury  used  to 
dance  in  the  ballet  over  the  water.  Don't  I  remember  her  !  She 
boxed  my  ears  behind  the  scenes,  by  jingo !  {Coming  fo^nvard.) 
Miss  Peinberton  !  Star  of  the  ballet  !  Light  of  the  harem  ! 
Don't  you  remember  the  grand  Oriental  ballet  of  the  "  Bulbul 
and  the  Peri  "  ? 

Miss  P.  Oh  !  (screams).  No,  n — no,  sir.  You  are  mistaken  : 
my  name  is  Prior.  I — never  was  at  the  "  Coburg  Theatre." 
I^ 

K.  (seizing  her  hand).  No,  you  don't,  though  !  What  !  don't 
you  remember  well  that  little  hand  slapping  this  face  ?  which  nature 
hadn't  then  adorned  with  whiskers,  by  gad  !  You  pi-etend  you 
have  forgotten  little  Foxbury,  whom  Charley  Calverley  used  to 
come  after,  and  who  used  to  drive  to  the  "Coburg"  every  night 
in  her  brougham.  How  did  you  know  it  was  the  "  Coburg  "1 
That  is  a  good  one  !     Had  you  there,  I  think. 

Miss  P.  Sir,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  pity  me  !  I  have  to 
keep  my  mother  and  my  sisters  and  my  brothers.  When — when 
you  saw  me,  we  were  in  great  poverty ;  and  almost  all  the 
wretched  earnings  I  made  at  that  time  were  given  to  my  jjoor 
father  then  lying  in  the  Queen's  Bench  hard  by.  You  know  there 
was  nothing  against  my  character — you  know  there  was  not.  Ask 
Captain  Touchit  whether  I  was  not  a  good  girl.  It  was  he  who 
brought  me  to  this  house. 

K.  Touchit !  the  old  villain  ! 

Miss  P.  I  had  your  sister's  confidence.  I  tended  her  abroad 
on  her  death-bed.  I  have  brought  up  your  nephew  and  niece. 
Ask  any  one  if  I  have  not  been  honest.  As  a  man,  as  a  gentle- 
man, I  entreat  you  to  keep  my  secret !  I  implore  you  for  the  sake 
of  my  poor  mother  and  her  children  !  (hieeling). 

K.  By  Jove !  how  handsome  you  are  !  How  crying  becomes 
your  eyes  !  Get  up  ,  get  up.  Of  course  I'll  keep  your  secret, 
but — ^ 

Miss  P.  Ah  !  ah  ! 

\_She  screams  as  he  tries  to  emhrace  her.     Howell  rushes  in. 

Howell.  Hands  off,  you  little  villain  !  Stir  a  step,  and  I'll 
kill  you,  if  you  were  a  regiment  of  captains  !  What !  insult  this 
lady  who  kept  watch  at  your  sister's  death-bed  and  has  took  charge 
of  her  children  !  Don't  be  frightened,  Miss  Prior.  Julia — dear, 
dear  Julia — I'm  by  you.  If  the  scoundrel  touches  you,  I'll  kill 
him,  I — I  love  you — there — it's  here — love  you  madly — with  all 
my  'art — my  a-heart ! 

Miss  P.  Howell — for  Heaven's  sake,  Howell ! 


143  G  7  8 


38  THE    WOLYES    AND    THE    LAMB 

K.  Pooh — ooli !  {^Bursting  vnth  laughter.')  Here's  a  novel, 
by  jingo  !  Here's  Jolin  in  love  with  the  governess.  Fond  of  plush, 
Miss  Peinberton — ey "?  Gad,  it's  the  best  thing  I  ever  knew. 
Saved  a  good  bit,  ey,  Jeanies  %  Take  a  public-house  %  By  Jove  ! 
I'll  buy  my  beer  there. 

John.  Owe  for  it,  you  mean.  I  don't  think  your  tradesmen 
profit  nuich  by  your  custom,  ex-Cornet  Kicklebury. 

K.   By  Jove  !  I'll  do  for  you,  you  villain  ! 

John.   No,  not  that  way,  Captain. 

[Stmggles  ivith  and  throws  him. 
K,  {screams).  Hallo,  Bulkeley  I 

YBulkeley  is  seen  sfrnUiiH)  in  the  garden. 

Enter  Bulkeley. 

Bulkeley.  What  is  it,  sir  1 

K.  Take  this  confounded  villain  off  me,  and  pitcli  him  into  the 
Thames — do  you  hear  1 

John.  Come  here,  and  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  hulking 
body.     [To  Bulkeley.) 

Bulkeley.  Come,  come!  wdiathever  his  hall  this  year  row  abouf? 

Miss  P.   For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  strike  that  poor  man  ! 

Bulkeley.  You  be  quiet.  What's  he  a-hittin'  about  my 
master  for  ? 

John.  Take  off  your   hat,   sir,   when   you    speak  to  a  lady. 
(Tahes  uj)  a  j^ker.)     And  now  come  on  both  of  you,  cowards  ! 
\^Rushes  at  Bulkeleg  and  knocks  his  hat  off'  his  head. 

Bulkeley  (stepping  back).  If  you'll  put  down  tliat  there 
poker,  you  know,  tlieu  I'll  pitch  into  you  fast  enougli.  But  tliat 
there  poker  ain't  fair,  you  know. 

K.  You  villain  !  of  course  you  will  leave  this  house.  And, 
Miss  Prior,  I  think  you  will  understand  tliat  you  will  go  too.  I 
don't  think  my  niece  wants  to  learn  dancin\  you  understand. 
Good-bye.     Here,  Bulkeley!  [Gets  hehind  footman  and  exit. 

Miss  P    Do  you  know  the  meaning  of  that  threat,  Mr.  Howell "? 

John.  Yes,  Miss  Prior. 

Miss  P.  I  was  a  dancer  once,  for  three  months,  four  years  ago, 
when  my  poor  father  was  in  ])rison. 

John.  Yes,  Miss  Prior,  I  knew  it.  And  I  saw  you  a  many 
times. 

Miss  P.   And  you  kept  my  secret  ? 

John.   Yes,  Ju — Jul — Miss  Prior. 

Miss  P.  Thank  you,  and  God  bless  you,  John  Howdl !  There, 
there.     You  mustn't !  indeed,  you  mustn't ! 


THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB      S9 

John.  You  don't  remember  the  printer's  boy  who  used  to  come 
to  Mr.  O'Reilly,  and  sit  in  your  'all  in  Bm-y  Street,  Miss  Prior  1  I 
was  that  boy.  I  was  a  country-bred  boy — that  is  if  you  called 
Putney  country,  and  Wimbledon  Common  and  that.  I  served  the 
Milliken  family  seven  year.  I  went  with  Master  Horace  to  College, 
and  then  I  revolted  against  service,  and  I  thought  I'd  be  a  man  and 
turn  printer  like  Doctor  Frankling.  And  I  got  in  an  othce :  and  I 
went  with  proofs  to  Mr.  O'Reilly,  and  I  saw  you.  And  thougli  I 
might  have  been  in  love  with  somebody  else  before  I  did — yet  it 
was  all  hup  when  I  saw  you. 

Miss  P.  {kindhj).  You  must  not  talk  to  nie  in  that  way,  John 
Howell. 

JoHX.  Let's  tell  the  tale  out.  I  couldn't  stand  the  newspaper 
night-work.  I  had  a  motlier  and  l)rothers  and  sisters  to  keep,  as 
you  had.  I  went  back  to  Horace  Milliken  and  said,  "  Sir,  I've  lost 
my  work.  I  and  mine  want  bread.  Will  you  take  me  back  again  % " 
And  he  did.     He's  a  kind  kind  soul  is  my  master. 

Miss  P.   He  is  a  kind  kind  soul. 

John.  He's  good  to  all  the  poor.  His  hand's  in  his  pocket  for 
everybody.  Everybody  takes  advantage  of  him.  His  mother-in-lor 
rides  over  him.  So  does  his  ma.  So  do  I,  I  may  say ;  but  that's 
over  now ;  and  you  and  I  have  had  our  notice  to  quit,  miss,  I 
should  say. 

Miss  P.  Yes. 

John.  I  have  saved  a  bit  of  money — not  much — a  hundred 
pound.  Miss  Prior — Julia — here  I  am — look — I'm  a  poor  feller 
— a  poor  servant — but  I've  the  heart  of  a  man — and — I  love 
you — oh  !  I  love  you  ! 

Mary.  Oh — ho — ho  ! 

[Mary  has  entered  from  garden,  and  bursts  out  crying. 

Miss  P.  It  can't  be,  Jolin  Howell — my  dear,  brave,  kind  John 
Howell.  It  can't  be.  I  have  watched  this  for  some  time  past, 
and  poor  Mary's  despair  here.  (Kisses  Mary,  who  cries  jdenti- 
fidly.)  You  have  the  heart  of  a  true  brave  man,  and  must  show 
it  and  prove  it  now.  I  am  not — am  not  of  your — pardon  me  for 
saying  so — of  your  class  in  life.  I  was  bred  by  my  uncle,  away 
from  my  poor  parents,  though  I  came  back  to  them  after  his  sudden 
death  ;  and  to  poverty,  and  to  this  dependent  life  I  am  now  leading. 
I  am  a  servant,  like  you,  John,  but  in  another  sphere — have  to 
seek  another  place  now ;  and  Heaven  knows  if  I  shall  procure 
one,  now  that  that  unlucky  passage  in  my  life  is  known.  Oh,  the 
coward  to  recall  it !  the  coward  ! 

Mary.  But  John  whopped  him,  miss  !  that  he  did.  He  gave 
it  him  well,  John  did.     (Crying.) 


40      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

Miss  P.  You  can't — you  ought  not  to  forego  an  attachment 
like  that,  John  Howell.  A  more  honest  and  true-hearted  creature 
never  breathed  tlian  Mary  Barlow. 

John.  No,  indeed. 

Miss  P.  She  has  loved  you  since  she  was  a  little  child.  And 
you  loved  her  once,  and  do  now,  John. 

Mary.  Oh,  miss!  you  hare  a  hangel, — I  hallways  said  you 
were  a  hangel. 

Miss  P.  You  are  better  than  I  am,  my  dear — much,  much 
bettor  than  I  am,  John.  The  curse  of  my  poverty  has  been  that 
I  have  had  to  flatter  and  to  dissemble,  and  hide  the  faults  of  those 
I  wanted  to  help,  and  to  smile  when  I  was  hurt,  and  laugh  when 
I  was  sad,  and  to  coax,  and  to  tack,  and  to  bide  my  time, — not 
with  Mr.  Milliken  :  he  is  all  honour,  and  kindness,  and  simplicity. 
Whom  did  he  ever  injure,  or  what  unkind  word  did  he  ever  say] 
But  do  you  think,  witli  the  jealousy  of  those  two  ladies  over  his 
house,  I  could  have  stayed  here  without  being  a  hypocrite  to  both 
of  them  ?  Go,  John.  My  good  dear  friend,  John  Howell,  marry 
Mary.     You'll  be  happier  with  her  than  with  me.     There  !    There  ! 

\They  embrace. 

Mary.  0— o— o!  1  think  I'll  go  and  hiron  hout  Miss  Hara- 
bella's  frocks  now.  \Exit, 

Enter  Milliken  with  Clarence — who  is  explaining 
things  to  him 

Clarence.  Here  they  are,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour. 
Ask  'em,  damn  'em  ! 

Milliken.  What  is  this  I  hear?  You,  John  Howell,  have 
dared  to  strike  a  gentleman  under  my  roof  I  Your  master's 
brother-in-law  ? 

John.  Yes,  by  Jove  !  and  I'd  do  it  again. 

Milliken.  Are  you  drunk  or  mad,  Howell  ? 

John.  I'm  as  sober  and  as  sensible  as  ever  I  was  in  my  life, 
sir — I  not  only  struck  the  master,  but  I  struck  the  man,  who's 
twice  as  big,  only  not  quite  as  big  a  coward,  I  think. 

Milliken.  Hold  your  scurrilous  tongue,  sir !  My  good-nature 
ruins  everybody  about  me.  Make  up  your  accounts.  Pack  your 
trunks — and  never  let  me  see  your  face  again, 

John.  Very  good,  sir. 

Milliken.  I  suppose,  Miss  Prior,  you  will  also  be  disposed 
to— to  follow  Mr.  Howell  ? 

Miss  P.  To  quit  you,  now  you  know  what  has  passed?  I 
never  supposed  it  could  be  otherwise.    I  deceived  you,  Mr,  Milliken, 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  41 

as  I  kept  a  secret  from  you,  and  riuist  pay  the  penalty.  It  is  a 
relief  to  me  :  the  sword  has  been  han^yiiig  over  me.  I  wish  I  iiad 
told  your  poor  wife,  as  I  was  often  minded  to  do. 

MiLLiKEN.  Oh,  you  were  minded  to  do  it  in  Italy,  were  you  ? 

Miss  p.  Captain  Touchit  knew  it,  sir,  all  along :  and  that  my 
motives  and,  thank  God,  my  life  were  honourable. 

MiLLiKEN.  Oh,  Touchit  knew  it,  did  hel  and  thought  it 
honourable — honourable  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  to  marry  a  footman — and 
keep  a  public-house?  I — I  beg  your  pardon,  John  Howell — I 
mean  nothing  against  you,  you  know  You'ie  an  honourable  man 
enough,  except  that  you  have  been  damned  insolent  to  my  brother- 
in-law. 

John.  Oh,  Heaven ! 

[^Strll-cf,  Ins  forehead,  and  walks  away. 

Miss  P.  You  mistake  me,  sir.  What  I  wished  to  speak  of  was 
the  fact  which  this  gentleman  has  no  doubt  communicated  to  you — 
that  I  danced  on  the  stage  for  three  montlis. 

MiLLiKEN,  Oh  yes.  Oh,  damme,  yes.  I  forgot.  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  that. 

KicKLEBURY.  You  866  shc  owns  it. 

Miss  P^  We  were  in  the  depths  of  poverty.  Our  furniture  and 
lodging-house  under  execution — from  which  Captain  Tou(;hit,  when 
he  came  to  know  of  our  difficulties,  nobly  afterwards  released  us. 
My  father  was  in  prison,  and  wanted  shillings  for  medicine,  and  I— 
I  went  and  danced  on  the  stage. 

MiLLiKEN.  Wein 

Miss  P.  And  I  kept  the  secret  afterwards ;  knowing  that  I 
could  never  hope  as  governess  to  obtain  a  place  after  having  been 
a  stage-dancer. 

MiLLiKEN.  Of  course  you  couldn't, — it's  out  of  the  question  ; 
and  may  I  ask,  are  you  going  to  resume  that  delightful  profession 
when  you  enter  the  married  state  with  Mr.  Howell "? 

Miss  P.  Poor  John  !  it  is  not  I  who  am  going  to — that  is,  it's 
Mary,  the  schoolroom  maid. 

MiLLiKEN.  Eternal  blazes  !  Have  you  turned  Mormon,  John 
Howell,  and  are  you  going  to  marry  the  whole  house  ? 

John.  I  made  a  hass  of  myself  about  Miss  Prior.  I  couldn't 
help  her  being  1 — 1 — ovely. 

Kick.  Gad,  he  proposed  to  her  in  my  presence. 

John.  What  I  proposed  to  her,  Cornet  Clarence  Kicklebury, 
was  my  heart  and  my  honour,  and  my  best,  and  my  everything— 
and  yoTi — you  wanted  to  take  advantage  of  her  secret,  and  you 
oflfered  her  indignities,  and  you  laid  a  cowardly  hand  on  her — a 
cowardly  liand  ! — and  I  struck  you,  and  I'd  do  it' again. 


42      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

MiLLlKBN.  What  1     Is  tliis  true  ? 

\Turninfj  round  very  fiercely  to  K. 

Kick.  Gad!     Well— I  only ' 

MiLLiKEN.  You  only  what  1  You  only  iiisulted  a  lady  under 
my  roof — the  friend  and  nurse  of  your  dead  sister— the  <j;uardian 
of  my  cliildren.  You  only  took  advantage  of  a  defenceless  girl, 
and  would  have  extorted  your  infernal  pay  out  of  her  fear.  You 
miserable  sneak  and  coward  ! 

Kick.  Hallo  !  Come,  come  !  I  say  I  won't  stand  this  sort  of 
chaff.     Dammy,  I'll  send  a  friend  to  you  ! 

MiLLiKEN.  Go  out  of  that  window,  sir !  March  !  or  I  will 
tell  my  servant,  John  Howell,  to  kick  you  out,  you  wretched  little 
scamp  !  Tell  that  big  brute,— what's-his-name  ?— Lady  Kicklebury's 
man,  to  pack  this  young  man's  portmanteau  and  bear's-grease  pots  ; 
and  if  ever  you  enter  these  doors  again,  Clarence  Kicklebury,  by 
the  Heaven  that  made  me  ! — by  your  sister  who  is  dead  ! — I  will 
cane  your  life  out  of  your  bones.  Angel  in  heaven  !  Shade  of  my 
Arabella — to  think  that  your  brother  in  your  house  should  be  found 
to  insult  the  guardian  of  your  children  ! 

John.  By  jingo,  you're  a  good-plucked  one  !  I  knew  he  was, 
miss, — I  told  you  he  was. 

\^Exit,  shaking  hands  with  his  master  and  with  Miss  P., 
and  dancing  for  joy.  Exit  Clarence,  scared,  out  oj 
window. 

John  {without).   Bulkeley  !  pack  up  the  Capting's  luggage  ! 

MiLLiKEN.  How  can  I  ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Priori  In  my 
wife's  name  I  ask  it — in  the  name  of  that  angel  whose  dying-bed 
you  watched  and  soothed— of  the  innocent  children  whom  you  have 
faithfully  tended  since. 

Miss  P.  Ah,  sir  !  it  is  granted  when  you  speak  so  to  me. 

MiLLiKEN.   Eh,  eh — d— don't  call  me  sir  ! 

Miss  P.  It  is  for  me  to  ask  pardon  for  hiding  what  you  know 
now  :  but  if  I  had  told  you — you — you  never  would  have  taken  me 
into  your  house — your  wife  never  would. 

MiLLiKEN.   No,  no.      {Weeping,) 

Miss  P.  My  dear  kind  Captain  Touchit  knows  it  all.  It  was 
by  his  counsd  I  acted.  He  it  was  who  relieved  our  distress.  Ask 
him  whether  my  conduct  was  not  honourable — ask  him  whether 
my  life  was  not  devoted  to  my  parents — ask  him  when — when  I 
am  gone. 

MiLLiKEN.  When  you  are  gone,  Julia !  Why  are  you  going  ? 
Why  should  you  go,  my  love — that  is— why  need  you  go,  in  the 
devil's  namel 

Miss  P.  Because,  when  your  mother — when  your  mother-in-law 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  43 

come  to  hear  tliat  your  children's  governess  has  been  a  dancer  on 
the  stage,  they  will  send  me  away,  and  you  will  not  have  the  power 
to  resist  them.  They  ought  to  send  me  away,  sir;  but  I  have 
acted  honestly  by  the  children  and  their  poor  mother,  and  you'll 
think  of  me  kindly  when — I — am — gone  1 

MiLLiKEN.  Julia,  my  dearest — dear — noble — dar the  devil ! 

here's  old  Kicldebury. 

JEnter  Lady  K.,  Children,  and  Clarence. 

Lady  K.  So,  Miss  Prior  !  this  is  what  I  hear,  is  it  ?  A  dancer 
in  my  house  !  a  serpent  in  my  bosom — poisoning — yes,  poisoning 
those  blessed  children  !  occasioning  quarrels  between  my  own  son 
and  my  dearest  son-in-law ;  flirting  with  the  footman  !  When  do 
you  intend  to  leave,  madam,  the  house  Avhich  you  have  po — poll 
—luted  ? 

Miss  P.  I  need  no  hard  language.  Lady  Kicklebury  :  and  I  will 
reply  to  none.  I  have  signified  to  Mr.  Milliken  my  wish  to  leave 
his  house. 

Milliken.  Not,  not,  if  you  will  stay.     (7b  2Iiss  P.) 

Lady  K.  Stay,  Horace  !  she  shall  netm'  stay  as  governess  in 
this  house  ! 

Milliken.  Julia  !  will  you  stay  as  mistress  1  You  have  known 
me  for  a  year  alone — before,  not  so  well,  wlien  the  house  had  a 
mistress  that  is  gone.  You  know  what  my  temper  is,  and  that  mj^ 
tastes  are  simple,  and  my  heart  not  unkind.  I  have  watched  you, 
and  have  never  seen  you  out  of  temper,  though  you  have  been  tried. 
I  have  long  thought  you  good  and  beautiful,  but  I  never  thought 
to  ask  the  question  which  I  put  to  you  now  : — come  in,  sir !  (to 
Clarence  at  door)  : — now  that  you  have  been  persecuted  by  those 
who  ought  to  have  upheld  you,  and  insulted  by  those  who  owed 
you  gratitude  and  respect.  I  am  tired  of  their  domination,  and 
as  weary  of  a  man's  cowardly  impertinence  (to  Clarence)  as  of  a 
woman's  jealous  tyranny.  They  have  made  what  was  my  Arabella's 
home  miserable  by  their  oppression  and  their  quarrels.  Julia  !  my 
wife's  fi'iend,  my  children's  friend  !  be  mine,  and  make  me  happy  ! 
Don't  leave  me,  Julia  !  say  you  won't — say  you  won't — dearest — 
dearest  girl ! 

Miss  P.   I  won't — leave — you. 

George  (ivithout).  Oh,  I  say  !  Arabella,  look  here  :  here's  papa 
a-kissing  Miss  Prior ! 

Lady  K.  Horace — Clarence  my  son  !  Shade  of  my  Arabella  ! 
can  you  behold  this  horrible  scene,  and  not  shudder  in  heaven  1 
Bulkeley  !   Clarence !  go  for  a  doctor — go  to  Doctor  Straightwaist 


44      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

at  the  Asylum — Horace  Milliken,  wlio  has  married  the  descendant 
of  the  Kickleburys  of  the  Conqueror,  marry  a  dancing-girl  oif  the 
stage  !  Horace  Milliken  '  do  you  wish  to  see  me  die  in  convulsions 
at  your  feet  1  I  writhe  there,  I  grovel  there.  Look !  look  at  me 
on  my  knees  !  your  own  mother-in-law  !  drive  away  this  fiend  ! 

Milliken.  Hem  !  I  ought  to  thank  you,  Lady  Kicklebury,  for 
it  is  you  that  have  given  her  to  me. 

Lady  K.    He   won't   listen !    he   turns  away   and    kisses   her 

horrible   hand.     This   will   never  do.     Help  me  up,   Clarence ;    I 

must  go  and  fetch  his  mother.     Ah,  ah  !  there  she  is,  there  she  is  ! 

\_Lady  !L  rushes  out,  as  the  toj}  of  a  barouche,  tvith  Mr. 

and  Mrs.   Bonnimjton  and  Coachvian,  is  seen  over 

the  gate. 

Mrs.  B.  What  is  this  I  hear,  my  son,  my  son  1  You  are  going 
to  marry  a— a  stage-dancer?  you  are  driving  me  mad,  Horace  ! 

Milliken.  Give  me  my  second  chance,  mother,  to  be  hapjiy 
You  have  had  yourself  two  chances. 

Mrs.  B.   Speak  to  him,  Mr,  Bonnington, 

[Bonninffton  malces  dumb  show. 

Lady  K,  Implore  him,  Mr,  Bonnmgton. 

Mrs.  B.  Pray,  pray  for  him,  Mr.  Bonnington,  my  love — my 
lost  abandoned  boy  ! 

Lady  K.  Oh,  my  poor  dear  IMrs.  Bonnington  ! 

Mrs.  B.   Oh,  my  poor  dear  Lady  Kicklebury  ! 

Yrhey  embrace  each  other. 

Lady  K.  I  have  been  down  on  my  knees  to  him,  dearest  Mrs. 
Bonnington. 

Mrs.  B.  Let  us  both — both  go  down  on  our  knees — I  %vill 
{to  her  husband).  Edward,  I  will !  {Both  ladies  on  their  knees. 
Bon7iington  tvith  outstretched  hands  behind  them.)  Lo<^k,  unhappy 
boy  !  look,  Horace  !  two  mothers  on  their  wretched  knees  before 
you,  imploring  you  to  send  away  this  monster  !  Speak  to  him,  Mr. 
Bonnington.  Edward  !  use  authority  with  him,  if  he  will  not 
listen  to  his  mother 

Lady  K,  To  his  mothers  ! 

Enter  ToucHiT. 

ToucHiT,  What  is  this  comedy  going  on,  ladies  and  gentlemen  1 
The  ladies  on  their  elderly  knees — Miss  Prior  with  her  .hair  down 
her  back.  Is  it  tragedy  or  comedy — is  it  a  rehearsal  for  a  charade, 
or  are  we  acting  for  Horace's  birthday  1  or,  oh  !— I  beg  your 
Reverence's  pardon — you  were  perhaps  going  to  a  professional  dutyl 

Mrs.  B.  It's  ive  who  are  praying  this  child,  Touchit.      This 


THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  45 

child,  with  -whom  you  used  to  come  home  from  Westminster  when 
you  were  boys.  You  have  influence  with  him ;  he  listens  to  you. 
Entreat  him  to  pause  in  his  madness. 

ToucHiT.  What  madness  1 

Mrs.  B,  That — that  woman — that  serpent  yonder — that — that 
dancing-woman,  whom  you  introduced  to  Arabella  Milliken,^ah  ! 
and  I  rue  the  day  : — Horace  is  going  to  mum — mum — marry  her  ! 

ToucHiT.  Well !  I  always  thought  he  would.  Ever  since  I 
saw  him  and  her  playing  at  whist  together,  wlien  I  came  down  here 
a  month  ago,  I  thought  he  would  do  it. 

Mrs.  B.  Oh,  it's  the  whist,  the  whist !  Why  did  I  ever  play 
at  whist,  Edward  1     My  poor  Mr.  Milliken  used  to  like  his  rubber. 

ToucHiT.  Since  lie  has  been  a  widower 

Lady  K.  A  Avidower  of  that  angel !  [Points  to  jncture. 

ToucHiT.  Pooh,  pooh,  angel !  You  two  ladies  have  never  given 
the  poor  fellow  any  peace.  You  were  always  quarrelling  over  liim. 
You  took  possession  of  his  house,  bullied  his  servants,  spoiled  his 
children  ;  you  did.  Lady  Kicklebury. 

Lady  K.  Sir,  you  are  a  rude,  low,  presuming,  vulgar  man. 
Clarence  !  beat  this  rude  man  ! 

ToucHiT.  From  what  I  have  heard  of  your  amiable  son,  he  is 
not  in  the  warlike  line,  I  think.  My  dear  Julia,  I  am  deliglited 
witli  all  my  heart  tliat  my  old  friend  should  have  found  a  Avoman 
of  sense,  good  conduct,  good  temper — a  won)an  who  has  had  many 
trials,  and  borne  them  with  great  patience — to  take  charge  of  him 
and  make  him  happy.  Horace,  give  me  your  hand  !  I  knew  Miss 
Prior  in  great  poverty.  I  am  sure  she  will  bear  as  nol)]y  her  present 
good  fortune ;  for  good  fortiuie  it  is  to  any  woman  to  become  the 
wife  of  such  a  loyal,  honest,  kindly  gentleman  as  you  are ! 

Enter  John. 

-  John.  If  you  please,  my  Lady — if  you  please,  sir — Bulkeley 

Lady  K.  What  of  Bulkeley,  sir  ; 

John.   He  has  packed   his   things,   and    Cornet  Kicklcbury's 
things,  my  Lady. 
•   Milliken.  Let  the  fellow  go, 

John.  He  won't  go,  sir,  till  my  Lady  have  paid  him  liis  book 
and  wages.     Here's  the  book,  sir  ! 

Lady  K.  Insolence  !  quit  my  i)resence  !  And  I,  Mr.  Milliken, 
will  quit  a  house 

John.   Shall  I  call  your  Ladyship  a  carriage? 

Lady  K.  Where  I  have  met  with  rudeness,  cruelty,  and  fiendish 
{to  Miss  P.,  xoho  smiles  and  curtsies) — yes,  fiendish  ingratitude. 


46  .  THE   WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

I  will  go,  I  say,  as  soon  as  I  liave  made  arrangements  for  taking 
other  lodgings.  You  cannot  expect  a  lady  of  fashion  to  turn  out 
like  a  servant. 

John.  Hire  the  "Star  and  Garter"  for  her,  sir.  Send  down 
to  the  "  Castle  "  ;  anything  to  get  rid  of  her.  I'll  tell  lier  maid  to 
pack  her  traps.     Pinhorn  !  \_Bechjns  maid  and  gives  orders. 

ToucHiT.  You  had  better  go  at  once,  my  dear  Lady  Kicklebury. 

Lady  K.  Sir ! 

ToucHiT.  The  other  mother-in-laiv  is  coming  !  I  met  her  on 
the  road  with  all  her  family.     He  !  he  !  he  !     (Screams.) 

Enter  Mrs.  Peiou  and  Children. 

Mrs.  p.  My  Lady  ;  I  hope  your  Ladyship  is  quite  well !  Dear 
kind  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  I  came  to  pay  my  duty  to  you,  ma'am. 
This  is  Charlotte,  my  Lady — the  great  girl  whom  your  Ladysliip 
so  kindly  promised  the  gown  for ;  and  this  is  my  little  girl,  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  ma'am,  please ;  and  this  is  my  Bluecoat  boy.  Go  and 
speak  to  dear  kind  Mr.  Milliken — our  best  friend  and  protector — 
the  son  and  son-in-law  of  these  dear  ladies.  Look,  sir  !  He  has 
brought  his  copy  to  show  you.  {Boy  shows  copy.)  Ain't  it 
creditable  to  a  boy  of  his  age,  Captain  Touchit  1  And  my  best  and 
most  grateful  services  to  you,  sir.  Julia,  Julia,  my  dear,  where's 
your  cap  and  spectacles,  you  stupid  thing  1  You've  let  your  hair 
dropdown.     What!  what! (Begins  to  be 2nizzled.) 

Mrs.  B.   Is  this  collusion,  madam  1 

Mrs.  p.  Collusion,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington ! 

Lady  K.   Or  insolence,  Mrs.  Prior? 

Mrs.  p.  Insolence,  your  Ladyship  !  Wliat — what  is  it  ?  what 
has  happened  1  What's  Julia's  hair  down  for  1  Ah  !  you've  not 
sent  the  poor  girl  away  1  the  poor  poor  child,  and  the  poor  poor 
children  ! 

Touchit.  That  dancing  at  the  "  Coburg "  has  come  out,  Mrs. 
Prior. 

Mrs.  p.  Not  the  darling's  fault.  It  was  to  help  her  poor 
father  in  prison.  It  was  I  who  forced  her  to  do  it.  Oh  !  don't, 
don't,  dear  Lady  Kicklebury,  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of 
these  poor  orphans  !     (Crying.) 

Milliken.  Enough  of  this,  Mrs.  Prior :  your  daughter  is  not 
going  away.  Julia  has  promised  to  stay  with  me — and — never  to 
leave  me — as  governess  no  longer,  but  as  wife  to  me. 

Mrs.  p.  Is  it — is  it  true,  Julia? 

Miss  P.  Yes,  mamma. 

Mrs.   p.   Oh !   oh !    oh !     (Flings  down  her  umhrella,   kisses 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  47 

Julia,  and  running  to  3Iilliken),  My  son,  my  son  !  Come  here, 
children.  Come,  Adolphus,  Amelia,  Charlotte — kiss  your  dear 
brother,  children.  What,  my  dears !  How  do  you  do,  dears  1 
{To  Jlilliken's  children.)  Have  they  heard  the  news'?  And  do 
you  know  that  my  daughter  is  going  to  be  your  mamma'?  There — 
there — go  and  play  with  your  little  uncles  and  aunts,  that's  good 
children !  [She  motions  off  the  Children,  tvho  retire  totvards 
garden.  Her  manner  changes  to  one  of  great  patronage  and 
intense  satisfaction.)  Most  hot  weather,  your  Ladyship,  I'm  sure. 
Mr.  Bonnington,  you  must  find  it  hot  weather  for  preachin'!  Lor'! 
there's  that  little  wretch  beatin'  Adolphus  !  George,  sir !  have 
done,  sir !  (Jiuns  to  separate  them.)  How  ever  shall  we  make 
those  children  agree,  Julia '? 

Miss  P.  They  have  been  a  little  spoiled,  and  I  think  Mr. 
Milliken  will  send  George  and  Arabella  to  school,  mamma:  will  you 
not,  Horace? 

Me.  Milliken.  I  think  school  will  be  the  very  best  thing  for 
them. 

Mrs.  p.  And  {Mrs.  P.  whispers,  pjointing  to  her  oivn  children) 
the  blue  room,  the  green  room,  the  rooms  old  Lady  Kick  has- — 
plenty  of  room  for  us,  my  dear  ! 

Miss  P,  No,  mamma,  I  think  it  will  be  too  large  a  party,- — 
Mr.  Milliken  has  often  said  tliat  lie  would  like  to  go  abroad,  and  I 
hope  that  now  he  will  be  able  to  make  liis  tour. 

Mrs.  p.  Oh,  then  !  we  can  live  in  the  house,  you  know:  what's 
the  use  of  payin'  lodgin',  my  dear  ? 

Miss  P.  The  house  is  going  to  be  painted.  You  had  best  live 
in  your  own  house,  mamma ;  and  if  you  Avant  anything,  Horace, 
Mr.  Milliken,  I  am  sin-e,  will  make  it  comfortable  for  you.  He 
has  liad  too  many  visitors  of  late,  and  will  like  a  more  quiet  life,  I 
think.     Will  you  not? 

Milliken.  I  shall  like  a  life  with  you,  Julia. 

John.   Cab,  sir,  for  her  Ladyshij) ! 

Lady  K.  This  instant  let  me  go  !  Call  my  people.  Clarence, 
your  arm !  Bulkeley,  Piuhorn  !  ]\Irs.  Bonnington,  I  wish  you 
good  morning !  AraljcUa,  angel !  {loolcs  at  2jici'n-re)  I  leave  you. 
I  sliall  come  to  you  ere  long. 

{Exit,  refusing  Jilillil-en^s  hand,  passes  vp  garden,  with 
her  servants  folloiving  her.  Mary  and  other  servants 
of  the  house  are  collected  together,  ivhom  Lady  K. 
waves  off.  Bluecoat  hoy  on  ivall  eating  plums. 
Page,  as  she  goes,  o-ies,  Hurray,  hurray  I  Bluecoat 
boy  cries.  Hurray  1  Whe)i  Lady  K.  is  gone,  John 
advances. 


48      THE  WOLVES  AND  THE  LAMB 

John.  I  think  I  heard  you  say,  sir,  that  it  was  your  intention 
to  go  abroad  1 

MiLLiKEN.  Yes  ;  oh  yes  !     Are  we  going  abroad,  my  Julia  1 

Miss  P.  To  settle  matters,  to  have  the  house  painted,  and 
clear.  {Pointing  to  Children,  Mother,  d;c.)  Don't  you  think  it 
is  the  best  thing  that  we  can  do  1 

MiLLiKEN.  Surely,  surely :  we  are  going  abroad,  Howell,  you 
will  come  with  us  of  course,  and  with  your  experience  you  will 
make  a  capital  courier.  Won't  Howell  make  a  capital  courier, 
Jnlia?  Good  honest  fellow,  John  Howell.  Beg  your  pardon  for 
being  so  rude  to  you  just  now.     But  my  temper  is  very  hot,  very  ! 

John  (laughing).  You  are  a  Tartar,  sir.  Such  a  tyrant !  isn't 
he,  ma'am  % 

Miss  P.  Well,  no ;  I  don't  think  you  have  a  very  bad  temper, 
Mr.  Milliken,  a — Horace. 

John.  You  must — take  care  of  him — alone.  Miss  Prior — Julia 
— -I  mean  Mrs.  Milliken.  Man  and  boy  I've  waited  on  him  this 
fifteen  year :  with  the  exception  of  that  trial  at  tlie  printing-office, 
which — which  I  won't  talk  of  noiv,  madam.  I  never  knew  him 
angry ;  though  many  a  time  I  have  known  him  provoked.  I  never 
knew  him  say  a  hard  word,  though  sometimes  perhaps  we've  de- 
served it.  Not  often — such  a  good  master  as  that  is  pretty  sure 
of  getting  a  good  servant — that  is,  if  a  man  has  a  heart  in  his 
bosom  ;  and  these  things  are  found  both  in  and  out  of  livery.  Yes, 
I  have  been  a  honest  servant  to  him, — haven't  I,  Mr.  Milliken? 

Milliken.  Indeed,  yes,  John. 

John.  And  so  has  Mary  Barlow.  Mary,  my  dear !  [Mary 
comes  forward.)  Will  you  allow  me  to  introduce  you,  sir,  to  the 
futur'  Mrs.  Howell  I— if  Mr.  Bonnington  does  your  little  business 
for  you,  as  I  daresay  (turning  to  Mr.  B.),  hold  gov'nor,  you  will! 
— Make  it  up  with  your  poor  son,  Mrs.  Bonnington,  ma'am.  You 
have  took  a  second  'elpmate,  why  shouldn't  Master  Horace  1  (To 
Mrs.  B.)  He — he  wants  somebody  to  help  him,  and  take  care  of 
him,  more  than  you  do, 

ToucHiT.  You  never  spoke  a  truer  word  in  your  life,  Howell. 

John.  It's  my  general  'abit,  Capting,  to  indulge  in  them  sort  of 
statements.  A  true  friend  I  have  been  to  my  master,  and  a  true 
friend  I'll  remain  wlien  he's  my  master  no  more. 

Milliken.  Why,  John,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  me  1 

John.  It's  best,  sir,  I  should  go.  I — I'm  not  fit  to  be  a 
servant  in  this  house  any  longer,  I  wish  to  sit  in  my  own  little 
home,  with  my  own  little  wife  by  my  side.  Poor  dear !  you've  no 
conversation,  Mary,  but  you're  a  good  little  soul.  We've  saved  a 
luuidred  pound  apiece,  and  if  we  want  more,  I  know  who  won't 


THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB  49 

grudge  it  us,  a  good  feller — a  good  master — for  whom  I've  saved 
many  a  hundred  pound  myself,  and  will  take  the  "  Milliken  Arms" 
at  old  Pigeoncot — and  once  a  year  or  so,  at  this  hanniversary,  Ave 
will  pay  our  respects  to  you,  sir,  and  madam.  Perhaps  we  will 
bring  some  children  with  us,  pcrliaps  we  will  find  some  more  in 
this  villa.  Bless  'em  beforehand !  Good-bye,  sir,  and  madam — 
come  away,  Mary  !  [Going. 

Mrs.  p.  {entering  ivith  clothes,  <tc.)  She  has  not  left  a  single 
thing  in  her  room.  Amelia,  come  here !  this  cloak  will  do  capital 
for  you,  and  this — this  garment  is  the  very  thing  for  Adol])hus. 
Oh,  John  !  eh,  Howell !  will  you  please  to  see  that  my  children 
have  something  to  eat,  immediately !  The  Milliken  children,  I 
supjjose,  have  dined  ali'eady  "? 

John.  Yes,  ma'am  :  certainly,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  p.  I  see  he  is  inclined  to  be  civil  to  me  viow ! 

Miss  P.  Jolin  Howell  is  about  to  leave  us,  jnamma.  He  is 
engaged  to  Mary  Barlow,  and  wlien  we  go  away,  he  is  going  to 
set  up  housekeeping  for  himself.  Good-bye,  and  thank  you,  John 
Howell  {gives  her  hand  to  John,  Jmt  with  great  reserve  of  manner). 
You  have  been  a  kind  and  true  i'riend  to  us — if  ever  we  can  serve 
you,  count  upon  us — may  he  not,  Mr.  Milliken  1 

Milliken.  Always,  always. 

Miss  P,  But  you  will  still  wait  upon  us — upon  Mr.  Milliken, 
for  a  day  or  two,  won't  you,  John  1  until  we — until  Mr.  Milliken 
has  found  some  one  to  replace  you.  He  will  never  find  any  one  more 
honest  than  you,  and  good  kind  little  Mary=  Thank  you,  ]\Iaiy, 
for  your  goodness  to  the  poor  governess. 

Mary.  Oh,  miss  !  oh,  mum  ! 

\_Miss  P.  liisses  Mary  'p^^^iyonisingly . 

Miss  P„  {to  John).  And  after  they  have  had  some  refreshment, 
get  a  cab  for  my  brothers  and  sisters,  if  you  please,  John.  Don't 
you  think  that  will  be  best,  my — my  dear  1 

MiLiJKEN.   Of  course,  of  course,  dear  Julia  ! 

Miss  P.  And,  Captain  Touchit,  you  will  stay,  I  ]ioj)e,  and  dine 
with  Mr.  Milliken?  And,  Mrs.  Bonnington,  if  you  Mill  receive  as 
a  daughter  one  who  has  alM-ays  had  a  sincere  regard  for  you,  I 
think  you  will  aid  in  making  your  son  hnppy,  as  I  promise  you 
with  all  my  heart  and  all  my  life  to  endeavour  to  do. 

\Miss  P.  and  Jf.  go  ti])  to  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

Mrs.  Bonnington.  Well,  there  then,  since  it  must  be  so,  bless 
you,  my  children  ! 

TouciiiT.   Spoken  like  a  sensible  woman  !     And  now,  as  I  do 
not  wish  to  interrupt  this  felicity,  I  will  go  and  dine  at  the  "Star 
and  Garter." 
1 


50  THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    LAMB 

Miss  P.  My  dear  Captain  Toucliit,  not  for  worlds  !     Don't  you 

know  I  nnistn't  be  alone  with  Mr.  Milliken  until— until 1 

MiLLiKEN.  Until  I  am  made  the  happiest  man  alive !  And 
you  will  come  down  and  see  us  often,  Touchit,  won't  you'?  And 
we  hope  to  see  our  friends  here  often.  And  we  will  have  a  little 
life  and  spirit  and  gaiety  in  the  place.  Oh,  mother !  oh,  George ! 
oil,  Julia !  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  me  to  think  that  I  am  released 
from  the  tyranny  of  that  terrible  mother-in-law  ! 

Mrs.  Prioe.  Come  in  to  your  teas,  children.  Come  this 
moment,  I  say. 

[The  Children  pass,  quarrelling,  behind  the  characters, 
Mrs.  Prior  summoning  them  ;  John  and  Mary  stand- 
ing on  each  side  of  the  dining-room  door  as  the  cartavn 
falls. 


LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 


LOYEL    THE    WIDOWEH 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  BACHELOR   OF  BEAK  STREET 

WHO  shall  be  the  liero  of  this  tale  ?  Not  I  who  write  it. 
I  am  but  the  Chorus  of  the  Play.  I  make  remarks  on 
the  conduct  of  the  characters :  I  narrate  their  simple 
story.  There  is  love  and  marriage  in  it :  there  is  grief  and  dis- 
appointment :  the  scene  is  in  the  parlou-r,  and  the  region  beneath 
the  ])arbur.  No :  it  may  be  the  parlour  and  kitchen,  in  this 
instance,  are  on  tlic  same  level.  There  is  no  high  life,  unless,  to 
be  sure,  you  call  a  baronet's  widow  a  lady  in  high  life ;  and  some 
ladies  may  be,  while  some  certainly  are  not.  I  don't  think  there's 
a  villain  in  the  whole  performance.  There  is  an  abominable  selfish 
old  woman,  certainly ;  an  old  highway  roblier ;  an  old  sponger  on 
other  people's  kindness ;  an  old  haunter  of  Bath  and  Cheltenham 
boarding-houses  (about  which  how  can  I  know  anything,  never 
having  been  in  a  boarding-house  at  Bath  or  Cheltenham  in  my 
life  1) ;  an  old  swindler  of  tradesm.en,  tyrant  of  servants,  bully  of 
the  poor — who,  to  be  sure,  might  do  duty  for  a  villain,  but  she 
considers  herself  as  virtuous  a  woman  as  ever  was  born.  The 
heroine  is  not  faultless  (ah  !  that  will  be  a  great  relief  to  some  folk, 
for  many  writers'  good  women  are,  you  know,  so  very  insipid). 
The  j)rincipal  personage  yon  may  very  likely  think  to  be  no  better 
than  a  muff.  But  is  many  a  respectable  man  of  our  acquaintance 
much  better  *?  and  do  muffs  know  that  they  are  what  they  are,  or, 
knowing  it,  are  they  unhappy  ?  Do  girls  decline  to  marry  one  if  he 
is  rich  1  do  we  refuse  to  dine  with  one?  I  listened  to  one  at  church 
last  Sunday,  with  all  the  women  crying  and  soblnng ;  and,  oh,  dear 
me  !  how  finely  he  preached !  Don't  we  give  him  great  credit  for 
wisdom  and  eloquence  in  the  House  of  Commons  1  Don't  we  give 
him  important  commands  in  the  armyt  Can  you,  or  can  you  not, 
point  out  one  who  has  been  made  a  peer  ]     Doesn't  your  wife  call 


54  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

one  in  the  moment  any  of  the  chikhen  are  ill  1  Don't  we  read  his 
dear  poems,  or  even  novels'?  Yes;  perhaps  even  this  one  is  read 
and  written  by — Well !  Quid  rides  ?  Do  you  mean  that  I  am 
painting  a  portrait  which  hangs  before  me  every  morning  in  the 
looking-glass  Avhen  I  am  shaving  1  Apres  1  Do  you  suppose  that 
I  suppose  that  I  have  not  infirmities  like  my  neighbours  1  Am  I 
weak?  It  is  notorious  to  all  my  friends  there  is  a  certain  dish  I 
can't  resist :  no,  not  if  I  have  already  eaten  twice  too  much  at 
dinner.  So,  dear  sir,  or  madam,  have  you  your  weakness — your 
irresistible  dish  of  temptation  ?  (or  if  you  don't  know  it,  your  friends 
do).  No,  dear  friend,  the  chances  are  that  you  and  I  are  not  people 
of  the  highest  intellect,  of  the  largest  fortune,  of  the  most  ancient 
family,  of  the  most  consummate  virtue,  of  the  most  faultless  beauty 
in  face  and  figure.  We  are  no  heroes  nor  angels ;  neither  are  we 
fiends  from  abodes  unmentionable,  black  assassins,  treacherous  lagos, 
familiar  with  stabbing  and  poison — murder  our  amusement,  daggers 
our  playthings,  arsenic  our  daily  bread,  lies  our  conversation,  and 
forgery  our  common  handwriting.  No,  we  are  not  monsters  of 
crime,  or  angels  walking  the  earth — at  least  I  know  one  of  us  who 
isn't,  as  can  be  shown  any  day  at  home  if  the  knife  won't  cut  or 
the  mutton  conies  up  raw.  /But  we  ai-e  not  altogether  brutal  and 
unkind,  and  a  few  folks  like  us.  Our  poetry  is  not  as  good  as 
Alfred  Tennyson's,  but  we  can  turn  a  couplet  for  Miss  Fanny's 
album :  our  jokes  arc  not  always  first-rate,  but  Mary  and  her 
mother  smile  very  kindly  when  papa  tells  his  story  or  makes  his 
pun.  We  have  many  Aveaknesses,  but  we  are  not  ruffians  of  crime. 
No  more  was  my  friend  Lovel.  On  the  contrary-  he  was  as  harm- 
less and  kindly  a  fellow  as  ever  lived  when  I  first  knew  him.  At 
present,  with  his  changed  position,  he  is,  perhaps,  rather  j^/te  (and 
certainly  I  am  not  asked  to  his  best  dinner-parties  as  I  used  to  be, 
where  you  hardly  see  a  commoner — but  stay !  I  am  advancing 
matters).  At  tlie  time  when  this  story  begins,  I  say,  Lovel  had 
his  faults — which  of  us  has  not  ?  He  had  buried  his  wife,  having 
notoriously  been  henpecked  by  her.  How  many  men  and  brethren 
are  like  him !  He  had  a  good  fortune — I  wish  I  had  as  much — 
tliough  I  daresay  many  people  are  ten  times  as  rich.  He  was  a 
good-looking  fellow  enough ;  though  that  depends,  ladies,  upon 
whether  you  like  a  fair  man  or  a  dark  one.  He  had  a  country 
house,  but  it  was  only  at  Putney.  In  fact,  he  was  in  business  in 
the  City,  and  being  an  hospitable  man,  and  having  three  or  four 
spare  bedrooms,  some  of  his  friends  were  always  welcome  at  Shrub- 
lands,  esjiecially  after  Mrs.  Lovel's  death,  Avho  liked  me  pretty  well 
at  the  period  of  her  early  marriage  with  my  friend,  but  got  to  dis- 
like me  at  last  and  to  show  me  the  cold  shoulder.     That  is  a  joint 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  55 

1  never  could  like  (though  I  have  known  fellows  who  persist  in 
dining  oft"  it  year  after  year,  who  cling  hold  of  it,  and  refuse  to  be 
separated  from  it)y^  I  say,  when  Lovel's  wife  began  to  show  nie 
that  she  was  tired  of  my  company,  I  made  myself  scarce  :  used  to 
pretend  to  be  engaged  when  Fred  faintly  asked  me  to  Shrublands ; 
to  accept  his  .meek  apologies,  proposals  to  dine  en  garron  at  Green- 
wi(!h,  the  club,  and  so  forth  -,  and  never  visit  upon  him  my  wrath 
at  his  wife's  inditierence— for,  after  all,  he  had  been  my  friend  at 
many  a  pinch  :  lie  never  stinted  at  "  Hart's "  or  "  Lovegrove's," 
and  always  made  a  point  of  having  the  wine  I  liked,  never  mind 
what  the  price  Avas.  As  for  his  wife,  there  was,  assuredly,  no  love 
lost  between  us — I  thought  her  a  lean,  scraggy,  lackadaisical,  ego- 
tistical, consequential,  insipid  creature ;  and  as  for  his  mother-in- 
law,  who  stayed  at  Fred's  as  long  and  as  often  as  her  daughter 
would  endure  her,  has  any  one  who  ever  knew  that  notorious  old 
Lady  Baker  at  Bath,  at  Ciieltenham,  at  Brighton,  —  wherever 
trumps  and  frumps  were  found  together ;  wherever  scandal  was 
cackled ;  Avherever  fly-blown  rei)utations  Avere  assembled,  and 
dowagers  Avith  damaged  titles  trod  over  each  other  for  tlie  ^>as  ; — 
who,  I  say,  ever  liad  a  good  Avord  for  that  old  Avoman  1  What 
party  was  not  bored  Avliere  she  appeared?  Wliat  tradesman  was 
not  done  Avith  Avhom  she  dealt  1  I  Avish  Avith  all  my  heart  I  was 
about  to  narrate  a  story  Avith  a  good  motlier-in-laAv  for  a  character ; 
but  tlien,  you  knoAv,  my  dear  madam,  all  good  Avomen  in  novels  are 
insipid.  Tliis  woman  certainly  Avas  not.  She  Avas  not  only  not 
insipid,  but  exceedingly  bad-tasted.  She  had  a  foul  loud  tongue,  a 
stupid  head,  a  bad  temper,  an  immense  pride  and  aiTogance,  an 
extravagant  son,  and  very  little  money.  Can  I  say  much  more  of  a 
woman  tlian  this  ?  Aha  !  my  good  Lady  Baker  !  I  was  a  mauvais 
sujef,  was  I  ? — I  was  leading  Fred  into  smoking,  drinking,  and  Ioav 
Iwchelor  habits,  Avas  II  I,  his  old  friend,  Avho  have  borroAved 
money  from  him  any  time  tliese  twenty  years,  Avas  not  fit  company 
for  you  and  your  precious  daugliter'?  Lideed  !  /jjaid  tlie  money 
I  borroAved  from  him  like  a  man ;  but  did  i/ou  ever  pay  him,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  When  Mrs.  Lovel  Avas  in  the  first  colunm  of 
the  Times,  then  Fred  and  I  used  to  go  off"  to  GrceuAvich  and  Black- 
Avall,  as  I  said ;  then  his  kind  old  heart  Avas  alloAved  to  feel  for  his 
friend ;  then  Ave  could  have  the  otlier  bottle  of  claret  Avithout  the 
appearance  of  Bedford  and  the  coffee,  Avhich  in  Mrs.  L.'s  time  used 
to  be  sent  in  to  us  before  we  could  ring  for  a  second  bottle,  although 
she  and  Lady  Baker  had  had  three  glasses  each  out  of  the  first. 
Three  full  glasses  each,  I  give  you  my  word !  No,  madam,  it  was 
your  turn  to  bully  me  once — noAv  it  is  mine  and  I  use  it.  No,  you 
old  catamaran,  though  you  pretend  you  ncA'er  read  novels,  some  of 


56  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

your  coiifoun'led  good-uatured  friends  will  let  you  know  of  this  one. 
Here  you  are,  do  you  hear?  Here  you  shall  be  shown  up.  And 
so  I  iiiteud  to  show  up  other  women  and  other  men  who  have 
offended  uie.  Is  one  to  be  subject  to  slights  and  scorn,  and  not 
have  revenge  1  Kindnesses  are  easily  forgotten  ;  but  injuries  ! — ■ 
what  worthy  man  does  not  keep  those  in  mind  1 

Before  entering  upon  the  present  narrative,  may  I  take  leave 
to  inform  a  candid  public  that,  though  it  is  all  true,  there  is  not  a 
word  of  truth  in  it ;  that  though  Lovel  is  alive  and  prosperous,  and 
you  very  likely  have  met  him,  yet  I  defy  you  to  point  him  out ; 
that  his  wife  (for  lie  is  Lovel  the  Widower  no  more)  is  not  the 
lady  you  imagine  her  to  be,  when  you  say  (as  you  will  persist  in 
doing),  "  Oh,  that  character  is  intended  for  Mrs.  Thingamy,  or  was 
notoriously  drawn  from  Lady  So-and-So."  No.  You  are  utterly 
mistaken.  Why,  even  the  advertising  puffers  have  almost  given  up 
that  stale  stratagem  of  announcing  "  Revelations  from  High  Life. 
— The  beatt,  monde  will  be  startled  at  recognising  the  portraits  of 
some  of  its  brilliant  leaders  in  Miss  Wiggins's  forthcoming  roman  de 
societe."  Or,  "We  suspect  a  certain  ducal  house  wdll  be  puzzled 
to  guess  how  the  pitiless  author  of  '  Mayfair  Mysteries '  has  become 
acquainted  with  (and  exposed  with  a  fearless  hand)  certain  family 
secrets  which  were  thought  only  to  be  known  to  a  few  of  tlie  very 
highest  members  of  the  aristocracy."  No,  I  say  ;  these  silly  baits  to 
catch  an  unsuspecting  public  shall  not  be  our  arts.  If  you  choose  to 
occupy  yourself  with  trying  to  ascertain  if  a  certain  cap  fits  one 
amongst  ever  so  many  thousand  heads,  you  may  possibly  pop  it 
on  the  right  one  :  but  the  cap-maker  Avill  perish  before  he  tells  you ; 
unless,  of  course,  he  has  some  private  pique  to  avenge,  or  malice 
to  wreak,  upon  some  individual  who  can't  by  any  possibility  hit 
again  ;—then,  indeetl,  he  will  come  boldly  forward  and  seize  upon 
his  victim — (a  bishop,  say,  or  a  woman  without  coarse  quarrelsome 
male  relatives,  will  be  best) — and  clap  on  him,  or  her,  such  a  cap, 
with  such  ears,  that  all  the  world  shall  laugh  at  the  poor  wretch, 
shuddering  and  blushing  beetroot  red,  and  whimpering  deserved 
tears  of  rage  and  vexation  at  being  made  the  common  butt  of 
society.  Besides,  I  dine  at  Lovel's  still ;  his  company  and  cuisine 
are  amongst  the  best  in  London.  If  they  suspected  I  was  taking 
them  off",  he  and  his  wife  would  leave  ofi^  inviting  me.  Would  any 
man  of  a  generous  disposition  lose  such  a  valued  friend  for  a  joke, 
or  be  so  foolish  as  to  show  him  up  in  a  story?  All  persons  with  a 
decent  knowledge  of  the  world  will  at  once  banish  the  thought,  as 
not  merely  base,  but  absurd.  I  am  invited  to  his  house  one  day 
next  week  :  vous  concevez  I  can't  mention  the  very  day,  for  then  he 
would  find  me  out — and  of  course  there  would  be  no  more  cards 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  57 

for  liis  old  friend.  He  would  not  like  appearing,  as  it  must  be  owned 
he  does  in  this  memoir,  as  a  man  of  not  A^ery  strong  mind.  He 
believes  himself  to  be  a  most  determined,  resolute  person.  He  is 
quick  in  speech,  wears  a  fierce  beard,  speaks  with  asperity  to  his 
servants  (who  liken  him  to  a — to  tliat  before-named  sable  or  ernrine 
contrivance,  in  which  ladies  insert  their  hands  in  winter),  and  takes 
his  wife  to  task  so  smartly,  that  I  believe  she  believes  he  believes 
he  is  the  master  of  tlie  house.  "  Elizabeth,  my  love,  he  must  mean 
A,  or  B,  or  D,"  I  fancy  I  hear  Lovel  say  ;  and  she  says,  "  Yes  ;  oh  ! 
it  is  certainly  D — his  very  image!"  "D  to  a  T,"  says  Lovel 
(who  is  a  neat  wit).  She  may  know  that  I  mean  to  depict  her 
husband  in  the  above  unpretending  lines  :  but  she  will  never  let 
me  know  of  her  knowledge  except  by  a  little  extra  courtesy  ;  except 
(may  I  make  this  pleasing  exception  ^)  by  a  few  more  invitations ; 
except  by  a  look  of  those  unftlthomable  eyes  (gracious  goodness  !  to 
think  she  wore  spectacles  ever  so  long,  and  put  a  lid  over  them  as 
it  were !),  into  which,  wlien  you  gaze  sometimes,  you  may  gaze  so 
deej),  and  deep,  and  deep,  that  I  defy  you  to  plump  half-way  down 
into  their  mystery. 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  I  had  lodgings  in  Beak  Street, 
Regent  Street  (I  no  more  have  lived  in  Beak  Street  tlian  in  Bel- 
grave  Square  :  but  I  choose  to  say  so,  and  no  gentleman  will  be  so 
rude  as  to  contradict  another) — I  had  lodgings,  I  say,  in  Beak  Street, 
Regent  Street.  Mrs.  Prior  was  the  landlady's  name.  She  had 
seen  better  days — landladies  frequently  have.  Her  husband — he 
could  not  be  called  the  landlord,  for  Mrs.  P.  was  manager  of  the 
place — had  been,  in  ha])j)ier  times,  captain  or  lieutenant  in  tlie 
militia  ;  then  of  Diss,  in  Norfolk,  of  no  profession  ;  then  of  Norwich 
Castle,  a  ^jrisoner  for  debt ;  then  of  Southampton  Buildings,  London, 
law-writer ;  then  of  the  Bom-Retiro  Ca9adores,  in  the  service  of 
H.M.  the  Queen  of  Portugal,  lieutenant  and  i)aymaster;  then  of 
Melina  Place,  Saint  George's  Fields,  &c. — I  forbear  to  give  the 
particulars  of  an  existence  which  a  legal  biographer  has  traced  step 
by  step,  and  which  has  more  than  once  been  tlie  subject  of  judicial 
investigation  by  certain  commissioners  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 
Well,  Prior,  at  this  time,  swimming  out  of  a  hundred  shipwrecks, 
had  clambered  on  to  a  lighter,  as  it  were,  and  was  clerk  to  a  coal- 
merchant,  by  the  river-side.  "  You  conceive,  sir,"  he  would  say, 
"  my  employment  is  only  temporary — the  fortune  of  war,  the  fortune 
of  war ! "  He  smattered  words  in  not  a  few  foreign  languages. 
His  person  was  profusely  scented  with  tobacco.  Bearded  individuals, 
padding  tlie  muddy  hoof  in  the  neighbouring  Regent  Street,  would 
call  sometimes  of  an  evening,  and  ask  for  "  the  Captain."  He  was 
Jinowii  at  jnauy  neighbouring   billiard-tables,  and,  1   iuiagine,  not 


58  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

respected.  You  will  not  see  enough  of  Captain  Prior  to  be  very 
weary  of  hira  and  liis  coarse  swagger,  to  be  disgusted  by  his 
repeated  requests  for  small  money-loans,  or  to  deplore  his  loss, 
wliich  you  will  please  to  suppose  has  liaj)pened  before  the  curtain 
of  our  present  drama  draws  up.  I  think  two  people  in  the  world 
were  sorry  for  him  :  his  wife,  who  still  loved  the  memory  of  the 
handsome  young  man  who  had  wooed  and  won  her ;  his  daughter 
Elizabeth,  wliom  for  tlie  last  few  months  of  his  life,  and  »ip  to  his 
fatal  illness,  he  every  evening  conducted  to  what  he  called  her 
"  Academy."  You  are  right.  Elizabeth  is  the  principal  character 
in  this  story.  Wlien  I  knew  her,  a  thin  freckled  girl  of  fifteen, 
with  a  lean  frock,  and  hair  of  a  reddish  hue,  she  used  to  borrow  my 
books,  and  play  on  the  First  Floor's  piano,  when  he  was  .  from 
liome — Slumley  his  name  was.  He  was  editor  of  the  Swell,  a  news- 
paper then  publis-lied  ;  author  of  a  great  number  of  popular  songs,  a 
friend  of  several  nuisic-selling  houses ;  and  it  was  by  Mr.  Slumley's 
interest  that  Elizabeth  was  received  as  a  pupil  at  what  the  family 
called  "  the  Academy." 

Captain  Prior  then  used  to  conduct  his  girl  to  the  Academy, 
but  she  often  had  to  conduct  him  home  again.  Having  to  wait 
about  the  premises  for  two,  or  three,  or  five  hours  sometimes, 
whilst  Elizabeth  was  doing  her  lessons,  he  would  naturally  desire 
to  shelter  himself  from  the  cold  at  some  neighbouring  house  of 
entertainment.  Every  Friday,  a  prize  of  a  golden  medal,  nay,  I 
believe  sometimes  of  twenty-five  silver  medals,  was  awarded  to 
Miss  Bellenden  and  other  young  ladies  for  their  good  conduct  and 
assiduity  at  this  Academy.  Miss  Bellenden  gave  her  gold  medal 
to  her  mother,  only  keeping  five  shillings  for  herself,  with  which 
the  poor  child  bought  gloves,  shoes,  and  her  humble  articles  of 
millinery. 

Once  or  twice  the  Captain  succeeded  in  intercepting  that  piece 
of  gold,  and  I  daresay  treated  some  of  his  whiskered  friends,  the 
clinking  trampers  of  the  Quadrant  pavement.  He  was  a  free- 
handed fellow  when  he  had  anybody's  money  in  his  pocket.  It 
was  owing  to  differences  regarding  the  settlement  of  accounts  that 
he  quarrelled  with  the  coal-merchant,  liis  very  last  employer. 
Bessy,  after  yielding  once  or  twice  to  his  importunity,  and  trying 
to  believe  his  solemn  promises  of  repayment,  had  strength  of  mind 
to  refuse  her  father  the  pound  which  he  would  have  taken.  Her 
five  shillings — her  poor  little  slender  pocket-money,  the  represen- 
tative of  her  ■  charities  and  kindnesses  to  the  little  brothers  and 
sisters,  of  her  little  toilette  ornaments,  nay  necessities ;  of  those  well- 
mended  gloves,  of  those  oft-darned  stockings,  of  those  poor  boots, 
which  had  to  walk  many  a  weary  mile  after  midnight;  of  those 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  59 

little  kiiicknacks,  in  tlio  sliajie  of  brooch  or  bracelet,  with  which  tlie 
poor  cliild  adorned  her  homely  robe  or  sleeve — her  poor  five  shillings, 
out  of  which  Mary  sometimes  found  a  i)air  of  shoes,  or  Tommy  a 
flannel-jacket,  and  little  Bill  a  coac^h  and  horse — this  wretched 
sum,  this  mite,  which  Bessy  administered  amongst  so  many  poor — 
I  very  much  fear  her  father  sometimes  confiscated.  I  charged  the 
child  witli  the  fiict,  and  she  could  not  deny  me.  I  vowed  a 
tremendous  vow,  that  if  ever  I  heard  of  her  giving  Prior  money 
again,  I  would  quit  the  lodgings,  and  never  give  those  children 
lollipop,  nor  pegtop,  nor  sixpence ;  nor  the  pungent  marmalade, 
nor  the  biting  gingerbread-nut,  nor  the  theatre  characters,  nor  the 
paint-box  to  illuminate  the  same  :  nor  the  discarded  clothes,  Avhicli 
became  smaller  clothes  upon  the  persons  of  little  Tommy  and 
little  Bill,  for  whom  Mrs.  Prior,  and  Bessy,  and  tlie  little  maid, 
cut,  clipiied,  altered,  ironed,  darned,  mangled,  with  the  greatest 
ingenuity.  I  say,  considering  what  had  passed  between  me  and 
the  Priors — considering  those  money  transactions,  and  those  clothes, 
and  my  kindness  to  the  children — it  was  rather  hard  that  my  jam- 
pots were  poached,  and  my  brandy-bottles  leaked.  And  then  to 
frighten  her  brother  witli  the  story  of  the  inexorable  creditor — oh, 
Mrs.  Prior  !— oh,  fie,  Mrs.  P.  ! 

So  Bessy  went  to  her  school  in  a  shabby  shawl,  a  faded  bonnet, 
and  a  poor  little  lean  dress  flounced  Avith  the  mud  and  dust  of  all 
weathers,  whereas  there  were  some  other  young  ladies,  fellow-pupils 
of  hers,  who  laid  out  their  gold  inedals  to  much  greater  advantage. 
Miss  Delamere,  with  her  eighteen  shillings  a  week  (calling  tliem 
"silver  medals"  was  only  my  wit  you  see),  had  twenty  new 
bonnets,  silk  and  satin  dresses  for  all  seasons,  feathers  in  abundance, 
swansdown  muft's  and  tippets,  lovely  pocket-handkerchiefs  and 
trinkets,  and  many  and  many  a  half-crown  mould  of  jelly,  bottle 
of  sherry,  blanket,  or  what  not,  for  a  poor  fellow-pupil  in  distress ; 
and  as  for  Miss  Montanville,  who  had  exactly  the  same  sal — well, 
who  had  a  scholarship  of  exactly  tlie  same  value,  viz.,  about  fifty 
pounds  yearly — she  kept  an  elegant  little  cottage  in  the  Regent's 
Park,  a  brougham  with  a  horse  all  over  brass  harness,  and  a  groom 
with  a  prodigious  gold  lace  hat-band,  who  amis  treated  with  frightful 
contumely  at  the  neighbouring  cabstand ;  an  aunt  or  a  mother,  I 
don't  know  which  (I  \w\)e  it  was  only  an  aunt),  always  comfortably 
dressed,  and  who  looked  after  Montanville  ;  and  she  herself  had 
bracelets,  brooches,  and  velvet  pelisses  of  the  very  richest  descn'ip- 
tion.  But  then  Miss  Montanville  was  a  good  economist.  IShe  was 
never  known  to  help  a  poor  friend  in  distress,  or  give  a  fainting 
brother  and  sister  a  crust  or  a  glass  of  wine.  She  allowed  ten 
shillings  a  week  to  her  father,  whose  name  Avas  Boskinson,  said  to 


60  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

be  a  clerk  to  a  cliapL'l  iti  Paddington  ;  but  she  would  never  see  him, 
— no,  not  when  he  was  in  hospital,  where  he  was  so  ill ;  and  though 
she  certainly  lent  Miss  Wilder  thirteen  pounds,  she  had  Wilder 
arrested  upon  her  promissory  note  for  twenty-four,  and  sold  up 
every  stick  of  Wilder's  furniture,  so  that  the  whole  Academy  cried 
shame !  Well,  an  accident  occurred  to  Miss  Montanville,  for  which 
tliose  may  be  sorry  who  choose.  On  the  evening  of  the  26th  of 
Dacember,  eighteen  hundred  and  something,  when  the  conductors 
of  the  Academy  were  giving  their  grand  Annual  Christmas  Pant — 
I  should  say  examination  of  the  Academy  pupils  before  their 
numerous  friends — Montanville,  who  happened  to  be  present,  not 
ill  her  brougham  this  time,  but  in  an  aerial  chariot  of  splendour 
drawn  by  doves,  fell  off  a  rainbow,  and  through  the  roof  of  the 
Revolving  Shrine  of  the  Amaranthine  Queen,  thereby  very  nearly 
damaging  Bellenden,  who  was  occupying  the  shrine  at-tired  in  a 
light-blue  spangled  dress,  waving  a  wand,  and  uttering  some  idiotic 
verses  composed  for  her  by  tlie  Professor  of  Literature  attached  to 
the  Academy.  As  for  Montanville,  let  her  go  shrieking  down  that 
trap-door,  break  her  leg,  be  taken  home,  and  never  more  be  character 
of  ours.      She  never  could  speak.      Her  voice  was  as  hoaz'se  as  a 

flshwoman's.     Can  that  immense  stout  old  box-keeper  at  the  

Theatre,  who  limps  up  to  ladies  on  the  first  tier,  and  offers  that 
horrible  footstool,  which  everybody  stumbles  over,  and  makes  a 
clumsy  curtsey,  and  looks  so  knowing  and  hard,  as  if  she  recognised 
an  acquaintance  in  the  splendid  lady  who  enters  the  box — can  that 
old  female  be  the  once  brilliant  Emily  Montanville  ?  I  am  told 
there  are  no  lady  box-keepers  in  the  English  theatres.  This,  I 
submit,  is  a  proof  of  my  consummate  care  and  artifice  in  rescuing 
from  a  prurient  curiosity  the  individual  personages  from  whom  the 
characters  of  the  pi'esent  story  are  taken.  Montanville  is  not  a 
box-opener.  She  mar/,  under  another  name,  keep  a  trinket-shop 
in  the  Burlington  Arcade,  for  Avhat  you  know :  but  this  secret  no 
torture  shall  induce  me  to  divulge.  Life  has  its  rises  and  its 
downfalls,  and  you  have  had  yours,  you  hobbling  old  creature. 
^I  )utanville,  indeed  !  Go  thy  ways  !  Here  is  a  shilling  for  thee. 
(Thank  you,  sir.)  Take  away  that  confounded  footstool,  and  never 
let  us  see  thee  more  ! 

Now  tlie  fairy  Amarantha  was  like  a  certain  dear  yoimg  lady 
of  whom  we  have  read  in  early  youth.  Up  to  twelve  o'clock, 
attired  in  sparkling  raiment,  she  leads  the  dance  with  the  prince 
(Gradini,  known  as  Grady  in  his  days  of  banishment  at  the  T.  R. 
Dublin).  At  supper,  she  takes  her  place  by  the  prince's  royal 
fither  (wlio  is  alive  now,  and  still  reigns  occasionally,  so  that  we 
will  not  mention  his  revered  name).     She  makes  believe  to  drink 


THE    BACHELOK    OF    BEAK    STREET  61 

from  the  gilded  pasteboard,  and  to  eat  of  the  miglity  pudding. 
She  smiles  as  the  good  old  irascible  monarch  knocks  the  prime 
nuuister  and  the  cooks  about :  she  blazes  in  splendour :  she  beams 
with  a  thousand  jewels,  in  comparison  with  which  the  Koh-i-noor 
is  a  wretched  lustreless  little  pebble :  she  disappears  in  a  chariot, 
such  as  a  Lord  Mayor  never  rode  in  : — and  at  midnight,  who  is 
that  young  woman  tripping  homeward  through  the  wet  streets  in 
a  battered  bonnet,  a  cuttou  shawl,  and  a  lean  frock  fringed  with  the 
dreary  winter  flounces  ? 

Our  Cinderella  is  up  early  in  the  morning :  she  does  no  little 
portion  of  the  house- work :  she  dresses  her  sisters  and  brothers : 
she  prepares  papa's  breakfast.  On  days  when  she  has  not  to  go  to 
morning  lessons  at  her  Academy,  she  helps  with  the  dinner.  Heaven 
help  us !  She  lias  often  brought  mine  when  I  have  dined  at  home, 
and  owns  to  having  made  that  famous  mutton-broth  when  I  had  a 
cold.  Foreigners  come  to  the  house — professional  gentlemen — to 
see  Slumley  on  the  first  floor  :  exiled  captains  of  Spain  and  Portugal, 
companions  of  the  warrior  her  father.  It  is  surprising  how  she  has 
learned  their  accents,  and  has  picked  uj)  French,  and  Italian  too. 
And  she  played  the  piano  in  Mr.  Slumley's  room  sometimes,  as  I 
have  said ;  but  refrained  from  that  presently,  and  from  visiting  him 
altogether.  I  suspect  he  was  not  a  man  of  principle.  His  paper 
used  to  make  direful  attacks  upon  individual  reputations ;  and  you 
would  find  theatre  and  opera  people  most  curiously  praised  and 
assaulted  in  the  Swell.  I  recollect  meeting  him,  several  years  after, 
in  the  lobby  of  the  Opera,  in  a  very  noisy  frame  of  mind,  when  he 
heard  a  certain  lady's  carriage  called,  and  cried  out  with  exceeding 
strong  language,  which  need  not  be  accurately  reported,  "  Look  at 
that  woman  !  Confound  her  !  I  made  her,  sir  !  Got  her  an  engage- 
ment when  the  family  was  starving,  sir !  Did  you  see  her,  sir  1 
She  wouldn't  even  look  at  me  ! "  Nor  indeed  was  Mr.  S.  at  that 
moment  a  very  agreeable  object  to  behold. 

Then  I  remembered  that  there  had  been  some  quarrel  with  this 
man,  when  we  lodged  in  Beak  Street  together.  It  difficulty  there 
was,  it  was  solved  ainhulando.  He  quitted  the  lodgings,  leaving 
an  ex(!ellent  and  costly  piano  as  security  for  a  heavy  bill  which  he 
owed  to  Mrs.  Prior,  and  the  instrument  was  presently  fetched  away 
by  the  music-sellers,  its  owners.  But  regarding  Mr,  S— — 's  valu- 
able biography,  let  us  speak  very  gently.  You  see  it  is  "an  insult 
to  literature "  to  say  that  there  are  disreputable  and  dishonest 
persons  who  write  in  newspapers. 

Nothing,  dear  friend,  escapes  your  penetration  :  if  a  joke  is 
made  in  your  company,  j'ou  are  down  upon  it  instantcr,  and  your 
smile  rewards  the  wag  who  amuses  you :  so  you  knew  at  once, 


62  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

whilst  I  Avas  talking  of  Elizabeth  and  her  Academy,  that  a  theatre 
was  meant,  where  the  poor  child  danced  for  a  guinea  or  five-and- 
tweuty  shillings  per  week.  Nay,  she  must  have  had  not  a  little 
skill  and  merit  to  advance  to  the  quarter  of  a  hundred  ;  for  she  was 
not  pretty  at  this  time,  only  a  rough  tawny-haired  filly  of  a  girl, 
with  great  eyes.  Dolphin,  the  manager,  did  not  think  much  of  her, 
and  she  jjassed  before  him  in  his  regiment  of  Sea-nymphs,  or  Baya- 
deres, or  Fairies,  or  Mazurka  maidens  (with  their  fluttering  lances 
and  little  scarlet  slyboots  !)  scarcely  more  noticed  than  Private  Jones 
standing  under  arms  in  his  company  when  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Field-Marshal  gallops  by.  There  were  no  dramatic  triumphs  for 
Miss  Bellenden  :  no  bouquets  were  flung  at  her  feet :  no  cunning 
Mephistopheles — the  emissary  of  some  philandering  Faustus  outside 
— corrupted  her  duenna,  or  brought  her  caskets  of  diamonds.  Had 
there  been  any  such  admirer  for  Bellenden,  Dolphin  would  not  only 
not  have  been  shocked,  but  he  would  very  likely  have  raised  her 
salary.  As  it  was,  though  himself,  I  fear,  a  pei'son  of  loose  morals, 
he  respected  better  things.  "  That  Bellenden's  a  good  hhonest 
gurl,"  he  said  to  the  present  writer  :  "  works  hard  :  gives  her  money 
to  her  family :  father  a  shy  old  cove.  Very  good  family  I  hear 
they  are  ! "  and  he  passes  on  to  some  other  of  the  innumerable 
subjects  which  engage  a  manager. 

Now,  why  should  a  poor  lodging-house  keeper  make  such  a 
mighty  secret  of  having  a  daughter  earning  an  honest  guinea  by 
dancing  at  a  theatre?  Why  persist  in  calling  the  theatre  an 
Academy  1  Why  did  Mrs,  Prior  speak  of  it  as  such,  to  me  who 
knew  what  the  truth  was,  and  to  whom  Elizabeth  herself  made  no 
mystery  of  her  calling  1 

There  are  actions  and  events  in  its  life  over  which  decent 
Poverty  often  chooses  to  cast  a  veil  that  is  not  unbecoming  to 
wear.  We  can  all,  if  we  are  minded,  peer  through  this  poor 
flimsy  screen  :  often  there  is  no  shame  behind  it : — only  empty 
platters,  poor  scraps,  and  other  threadbare  evidence  of  want  and 
cold.  And  who  is  called  on  to  show  his  rags  to  the  public,  and 
cry  out  his  hunger  in  the  street  1  At  this  time  (her  character  has 
developed  itself  not  so  amiably  since),  Mrs  Prior  was  outwardly 
respectable ;  and  yet,  as  I  have  said,  my  groceries  were  consumed 
with  remarkable  rapidity ;  my  wine  and  brandy-bottles  were  all 
leaky,  until  they  were  excluded  from  air  under  a  patent  lock  ;— 
my  Morel's  raspberry-jam,  of  which  I  was  passionately  fond,  if 
exposed  on  the  table  for  a  few  hours,  was  always  eaten  by  the 
cat,  or  that  wonderful  little  wretch  of  a  maid-of-all-work,  so  active, 
yet  so  patient,  so  kind,  so  dirty,  so  obliging.  Was  it  the  viaid 
who  took  those  groceries  ]     I  have  seen  the  "  Gazza  Ladra  "  and 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  63 

know  that  poor  little  maids  are  sometimes  wrongfully  accused ; 
and  besides,  in  my  particular  case,  I  own  I  don't  care  who  the 
culprit  was.  At  the  year's  end,  a  single  man  is  not  much  poorer 
for  this  house-tax  which  he  pays.  One  Sunday  evening,  being 
confined  with  a  cold,  and  partaking  of  that  mutton-broth  which 
Elizabeth  made  so  well,  and  which  she  brought  me,  I  entreated 
her  to  bring  from  the  cupboard,  of  which  I  gave  her  the  key,  a 
certain  brandy-bottle.  She  saw  my  face  when  I  looked  at  her  : 
there  was  no  mistaking  its  agony.  There  was  scarce  any  brandy 
left :  it  had  all  leaked  away :  and  it  was  Sunday,  and  no  good 
brandy  was  to  be  bought  that  evening. 

Elizabeth,  I  say,  saw  my  grief.  She  put  down  the  bottle,  and 
she  cried  :  she  tried  to  prevent  herself  from  doing  so  at  first,  but 
she  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

"My  dear,— dear  child,"  says  I,  seizing  her  hand,  "you  don't 
suppose  I  fiincy  you " 

"  No — no ! "  she  says,  drawing  the  large  hand  over  her  eyes. 
«'  No — no  !  but  I  saw  it  when  you  and  Mr.  Warrington  last  'ad 
some.     Oh  !  do  have  a  patting  lock  !  " 

"  A  patent  lock,  my  dear  !  "  I  remarked.  "  How  odd  that  you, 
who  have  learned  to  pronounce  Italian  and  French  words  so  Avell, 
should  make  such  strange  slips  in  English  !  Your  mother  speaks 
well  enough." 

"  She  was  born  a  lady.  She  was  not  sent  to  be  a  milliner's 
girl,  as  I  was,  and  then  among  those  noisy  girls  at  that— oh  !  that 
place  !  "  cries  Bessy,  in  a  sort  of  desperation,  clenching  her  hand. 

Here  the  bells  of  Saint  Beak's  began  to  ring  quite  cheerily 
for  evening  service,  I  heard  "  Elizabeth  ! "  cried  out  from  the 
lower  regions  by  Mrs,  Prior's  cracked  voice.  And  the  maiden 
went  her  way  to  church,  which  she  and  her  mother  never  missed 
of  a  Sunday;  and  I  daresay  I  slept  just  as  well  Avithout  the 
brandy-and- water, 

Slumley  being  gone,  Mrs.  Prior  came  to  me  rather  wistfully 
one  day,  and  wanted  to  know  whether  I  would  object  to  Madame 
Bentivoglio,  the  opera-singer,  having  the  first  floor  1  This  was  too 
much,  indeed  !  How  was  my  work  to  go  on  with  that  woman 
practising  all  day  and  roaring  underneath  me  1  But,  after  sending 
away  so  good  a  customer,  I  could  not  refuse  to  lend  the  Priors  a 
little  more  money  ;  and  Prior  insisted  upon  treating  me  to  a  new 
stamp,  and  making  out  a  new  and  handsome  bill  for  an  amount 
nearly  twice  as  great  as  the  last :  which  he  had  no  doubt  under 
Heaven,  and  which  he  pledged  his  honour  as  an  oflicer  and  a 
gentleman,  that  he  would  meet.  Let  me  see  :  That  was  how 
many  years  ago? — Thirteen,  fourteen,  twenty?     JSever  mind.     My 


64  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

fair  Elizabeth,  I  think  if  you  saw  your  poor  old  father's  signature 
now,  you  would  pay  it.  I  came  upon  it  lately  in  an  old  box  I 
haven't  opened  these  fifteen  years,  along  witli  some  letters,  written 
— never  mind  by  whom — and  an  old  glove  that  I  used  to  set  an 
absurd  value  by  ;  and  that  emerald-green  tabinet  waistcoat  which 
kind  old  Mrs.  Macmanus  gave  me,  and  which  I  wore  at  the  L — d 
L — t — nt's  ball,  Pli-n-x  Park,  Dublin,  once,  when  I  danced 
with  her  there!  Lord! — Lord!  It  would  no  more  meet  round 
my  Avaist  now  than  round  Daniel  Lambert's.  How  Ave  outgrow 
things ! 

But  as  I  never  presented  this  united  bill  of  <£43  odd  (the 
first  portion  of  £23,  &c.  was  advanced  by  me  in  order  to  pay 
an  execution  out  of  the  house)— as  I  never  expected  to  have  it 
paid  any  more  than  I  did  to  be  Lord  Mayor  of  London, — I  say  it 
was  a  little  hard  that  Mrs.  Prior  should  write  off  to  her  brother 
(she  writes  a  capital  letter),  blessing  Providence  that  had  given 
him  a  noble  income,  promising  him  the  benefit  of  her  prayers,  in 
order  that  he  should  long  live  to  enjoy  his  large  salary,  and  in- 
forming him  that  an  obdurate  creditor,  who  shall  be  nameless 
(meaning  me),  who  had  Captain  Prior  in  his  poiver  (as  if,  being 
in  possession  of  tliat  dingy  scrawl,  I  should  have  known  what  to 
do  with  it),  who  held  Mr.  Prior's  acceptance  for  £43,  14s.  4d.  due 
on  the  3rd  July  (my  bill),  Avould  infallibly  bring  their  family  to 
RUIN,  unless  a  part  of  the  money  Avas  paid  up.  When  I  went  up 
to  my  old  College,  and  called  on  Sargent,  at  Boniface  Lodge,  he 
treated  me  as  civilly  as  if  I  had  been  an  undergraduate  ;  scarcely 
spoke  to  me  in  hall,  Avhere,  of  course,  I  dined  at  the  Fellows'  table ; 
and  only  asked  me  to  one  of  Mrs.  Sargent's  confounded  tea-parties 
during  the  Avhole  time  of  my  stay.  Now  it  was  by  this  man's 
entreaty  that  I  went  to  lodge  at  Prior's ;  he  talked  to  me  after 
dinner  one  day,  he  hummed,  he  ha'd,  he  blushed,  he  prated  in  his 
pompous  AA^ay,  about  an  unfortunate  sister  in  London — fital  early 
marriage — Imsband,  Captain  Prior,  Knight  of  the  SAvan  with  Tavo 
Necks  of  Portugal,  most  distinguished  officer,  but  imprudent  specu- 
lator—advantageous lodgings  in  tlie  centre  of  London,  quiet,  though 
near  the  Clubs — if  I  Avas  ill  (I  am  a  confirmed  invalid),  Mrs.  Prior, 
liis  sister,  Avould  nurse  me  like  a  mother.  So,  in  a  word,  I  Avent 
to  Prior's :  I  took  the  rooms :  I  Avas  attracted  by  some  children  : 
Amelia  Jane  (that  little  dirty  maid  before  mentioned)  dragging  a 
go-cart,  containing  a  little  dirty  pair ;  another  marching  by  them, 
carrying  a  fourth  Avell-nigh  as  big  as  himself  These  little  folks, 
having  threaded  the  mighty  flood  of  Regent  Street,  debouched  into 
tlie  quiet  creek  of  Beak  Street,  just  as  I  happened  to  follow  them. 
And  the  door  at  which  the  small  caravan  halted, — the  very  door  I 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  65 

was  in  search  of, — was  opened  by  Elizabeth,  then  only  just  emerging 
from  childhood,  with  tawny  hair  falling  into  her  solemn  eyes. 

The  aspect  of  tliese  little  people,  which  would  have  deterred 
many,  happened  to  attract  me.  I  am  a  lonely  man.  I  may  have 
been  ill-treated  by  some  one  once,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  If  I  had  had  children  of  my  own,  I  think  I  should  have 
been  good  to  them.  I  thought  Prior  a  dreadful  vulgar  wretch,  and 
his  wife  a  scheming,  greedy  little  woman.  But  the  children  amused 
me :  and  I  took  the  rooms,  liking  to  hear  overhead  in  the  morning 
the  patter  of  their  little  feet.  The  person  I  mean  has  several ; — 
husband,  judge  in  the  West  Indies.  Allons  !  now  you  know  how 
I  came  to  live  at  Mrs.  Prior's. 

Though  I  am  now  a  steady,  a  confirmed  old  bachelor  (I  shall 
call  myself  Mr.  Batchelor,  if  you  please,  in  this  story ;  and  there 
is  some  one  far — far  away  who  knows  why  I  will  never  take 
another  title),  I  was  a  gay  young  fellow  enough  once.  I  was  not 
above  the  pleasures  of  youth  :  in  fact,  I  learned  quadrilles  on 
purpose  to  dance  with  her  that  long  vacation  when  I  went  to  read 
with  my  young  friend.  Lord  Viscount  Poldoody,  at  Dub — psha  ! 
Be  still,  thou  foolish  heart !  Pcrliaps  I  misspent  my  time  as  an 
undergraduate.  Perhaps  I  read  too  mauy  novels,  occupied  myself 
too  nuich  with  "  elegant  literature  "  (that  used  to  be  our  phrase), 
and  spoke  too  often  at  the  Union,  where  I  had  a  considerable 
reputation.  But  those  fine  words  got  me  no  College  prizes  :  I 
missed  my  fcUowshii) :  was  rather  in  disgrace  wdth  my  relations 
afterwards,  but  had  a  small  independence  of  my  own,  which  I 
eked  out  by  taking  a  few  pupils  for  little-goes  and  the  common 
degree.  At  length,  a  relation  dying,  and  leaving  me  a  further  small 
income,  I  left  the  University,  and  came  to  icside  in  London. 

Now  in  my  third  year  at  College,  there  came  to  Saint  Boniface 
a  young  gentleman,  who  was  one  of  the  few  gentlemen-pensioners 
of  our  society.  His  popularity  speedily  was  great.  A  kindly  and 
simple  youtli,  he  would  have  been  liked,  I  daresay,  even  though 
he  had  been  no  richer  than  the  rest  of  us  ;  but  this  is  certain,  that 
flattery,  worldliness,  mammon  worship,  are  vices  as  M^ell  known  to 
young  as  to  old  boys ;  and  a  rich  lad  at  school  or  college  has  his 
followers,  tuft-hunters,  led-captains,  little  courts,  just  as  much  as 
any  elderly  millionaire  of  Pall  Mall,  Avho  gazes  round  his  Club  to 
see  whom  he  shall  take  home  to  dinner,  while  humble  trencher- 
men wait  anxiously,  tliinking — Ah  !  will  he  take  mo  this  time  ? 
or  will  he  ask  that  abominable  sneak  and  toady  Henchman  again  1 
•\Vell — well  !  this  is  an  old  story  about  parasites  and  flatterers. 
My  dear  good  sir,  I  am  not  for  a  moment  going  to  say  that 
you  ever  were  one ;  and  I  daresay  it  was  very  base  and  mean  of 

5 


66  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

us  to  like  a  man  chiefly  on  account  of  his  money.     "  I  know  " 

Fred  Lovel  used  to  say — "I  know  fellows  come  to  my  rooms 
because  I  have  a  large  allowance,  and  plenty  of  my  poor  old 
governor's  wine,  and  give  good  dinners^  I  am  not  deceived ;  but, 
at  least,  it  is  pleasanter  to  come  to  me  and  have  good  dinners, 
and  good  wine,  than  to  go  to  Jack  Highson's  dreary  tea  and 
turnout,  or  to  Ned  Roper's  abomniable  Oxbridge  port."  And  so 
I  admit  at  once  that  Lovel's  parties  were  more  agreeable  than  most 
men's  in  the  College.  Perhaps  the  goodness  of  the  fare,  by  pleasing 
the  guests,  made  them  more  pleasant.  A  dimier  in  hall  and  a 
pewter  plate  is  all  very  well,  and  I  can  say  grace  before  it  with 
all  my  heart;  but  a  dinner  with  fish  from  London,  game,  and 
two  or  three  nice  little  entrees,  is  better — and  tliere  was  no  better 
cook  ia  the  University  than  ours  at  Saint  Boniface,  and  ah  me  ! 
there  were  appetites  then,  and  digestions  which  rendered  the  good 
dinner  doubly  good. 

Between  me  and  young  Lovel  a  friendship  sjn-ang  up,  which, 
I  trust,  even  the  publication  of  this  story  will  not  diminish.  There 
is  a  period,  immediately  after  the  taking  of  his  bachelor's  degree, 
when  many  a  University-man  finds  himself  embarrassed.  The 
tradesmen  rather  nidely  press  for  a  settlement  of  their  accounts. 
Those  prints  we  ordered  calidi  juventd  ;  those  shirt-studs  and  pins 
which  the  jewellers  would  persist  in  thrusting  into  our  artless 
bosoms ;  those  fine  coats  we  would  insist  on  having  for  our  books, 
as  well  as  ourselves ;  all  these  have  to  be  paid  for  by  the  graduate. 
And  my  father,  who  was  then  alive,  refusing  to  meet  these  demands, 
under  the — I  own— just  pica,  that  my  alloAvance  had  been  ample, 
and  that  my  half-sisters  ought  not  to  be  mulcted  of  their  slender 
portions  in  consequence  of  my  extravagance,  I  should  have  been 
subject  to  very  serious  inconvenience — nay,  possibly,  to  personal 
incarceration— had  not  Lovel,  at  the  risk  of  rustication,  rushed  up 
to  London  to  his  motlier  (who  then  had  especial  reasons  for  being 
very  gracious  with  her  son),  obtained  a  supply  of  money  from  her, 
and  brought  it  to  me  at  Mr.  Shackell's  horrible  hotel,  where  I  was 
lodged.  He  had  tears  in  his  kind  eyes ;  he  grasped  my  hand  a 
hundred  and  hundred  times  as  he  flung  the  notes  into  my  lap ;  and 
the  recoi-ding  tutor  (Sargent  w^as  only  tutor  then),  who  Avas  going 
to  bring  him  up  before  the  master  for  breach  of  discipline,  dashed 
away  a  drop  from  his  own  lid,  when,  with  a  moving  eloquence,  I 
told  what  had  happened,  and  blotted  out  the  transaction  with  some 
particular  old  LSll  port,  of  wliich  we  freely  jiartook  in  his  private 
rooms  tliat  evening.  By  laborious  instalments,  I  had  the  happiness 
to  pay  Lovel  back.  I  took  pui)ils,  as  I  said ;  I  engaged  in  literary 
pursuits :  I  became  connected  with  a  Hterary  periodical,  and,  I  am 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  67 

ashamed  to  say,  I  imposoil  myself  uitoii  the  public  as  a  goud  classical 
scholar.  I  was  not  thought  the  loss  learned,  when,  my  relative 
dying,  I  found  myself  in  possession  of  a  small  independency  ;  and 
my  "  Translations  from  the  Greek,"  my  "  Poems  hy  Beta,"  and  my 
articles  in  tlie  })aper  of  which  I  was  part  proprietor  for  several  years, 
have  had  their  little  success  in  their  day. 

Indeed  at  Oxbridge,  if  I  did  not  obtain  University  honours,  at 
least  I  showed  literary  tastes.  I  got  the  prize  essay  one  year  at 
Bonifoce,  and  plead  guilty  to  having  written  essays,  poems,  and  a 
tragedy.  My  College  friends  had  a  joke  at  my  expense  (a  very 
small  joke  serves  to  amuse  those  port-wine-bibbing  fogies,  and  keeps 
them  laughing  for  ever  so  long  a  time) — they  are  welcome,  I  say, 
to  make  merry  at  my  charges — in  respect  of  a  certain  bargain 
which  I  made  on  coming  to  London,  and  in  which,  had  I  been 
Moses  Primrose  purchasing  green  spectacles,  I  could  scarcely  have 
been  more  taken  in.  My  Jenkinson  was  an  old  College  acquaint- 
ance, whom  I  was  idiot  enough  to  imagine  a  respectable  man :  the 
fellow  had  a  very  smooth  tongue,  and  sleek  sanctified  exterior.  He 
was  rather  a  popular  preacher,  and  used  to  cry  a  good  deal  in  the 
pulpit.  He,  and  a  queer  wine-merchant  and  bill-discounter,  Sherrick 
by  name,  had  somehow  got  possession  of  that  neat  little  literary 
paper,  the  Museum,  wdiicli,  perhaps,  you  remember ;  and  this  eligible 
literary  proi)erty  my  friend  Honeyman,  with  his  wheedling  tongue, 
induced  me  to  purchase.  I  bear  no  malice  :  the  fellow  is  in  Lidia 
now,  where  I  trust  lie  pays  his  butcher  and  baker.  He  was  in 
dreadful  straits  for  money  when  he  sold  me  the  Museum.  He 
began  crying  when  I  told  him  some  short  time  afterwards  that  he 
was  a  swindler,  and  from  behind  his  pocket-handkerchief  sobbed 
a  prayer  that  I  should  one  day  think  better  of  him  ;  whereas  my 
remarks  to  the  same  eiiect  produced  an  exactly  contrary  impression 
upon  his  accomplice,  Sherrick,  who  burst  out  laughing  in  my  i'ace, 
and  said,  "  The  more  fool  you  !  "  Mr.  Sherrick  w^as  right.  He  was 
a  fool,  without  mistake,  who  had  any  money-dealing  with  liim  ;  and 
poor  Honeyman  w\as  right,  too ;  I  don't  think  so  badly  of  him  as 
I  did.  A  fellow  so  hardly  pinched  for  money  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  extracting  it  from  such  a  greenhorn.  •  I  daresay  I 
gave  myself  aii'S  as  editor  of  that  confounded  Museum,  and  ])ro])Osed 
to  educate  the  public  taste,  to  diffuse  morality  and  sound  literature 
throughout  the  nation,  and  to  pocket  a  liberal  salary  in  return  for 
my  services.  I  daresay  I  printed  my  own  sonnets,  my  own  tragedy, 
my  own  verses  (to  a  Being  who  shall  be  nameless,  but  whose  conduct 
has  caused  a  faitliful  heart  to  bleed  not  a  little).  I  daresay  I 
wrote  satirical  articles,  in  which  I  i)iqued  myself  upon  the  fineness 
of  my  wit,  and  criticisms,  got  up  for  the  nonce  out  of  encyclopiedias 


6s  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

and  biographical  dictionaries  ;  so  that  T  would  be  actually  astounded 
at  my  own  knowledge.  I  daresay  I  made  a  gaby  of  myself  to 
the  world :  pray,  my  good  friend,  hast  thou  never  done  like- 
wise 1  If  thou  hast  never  been  a  fool,  be  sure  thou  wilt  never  be 
a  wise  man. 

I  think  it  was  my  brilliant  confrere  on  the  first  floor  (he  had 
pecuniary  transactions  with  Sherrick,  and  visited  two  or  three  of 
her  Majesty's  metropolitan  prisons  at  that  gentleman's  suit)  who 
first  showed  me  how  grievously  I  had  been  cheated  in  the  newspaper 
matter.  Slumley  wrote  for  a  paper  printed  at  our  otfice.  The 
same  boy  often  brought  proofs  to  both  of  us — a  little  bit  of  a  puny 
bright-eyed  chap,  who  looked  scarce  twelve  years  old,  when  he  was 
sixteen ;  who  in  wit  was  a  man,  Avhen  in  stature  he  was  a  child, — 
like  many  other  children  of  the  poor. 

This  little  Dick  Bedford  used  to  sit  many  hours  asleep  on  my 
landing-place  or  Slumley's,  whilst  we  were  preparing  our  invaluable 
compositions  within  our  respective  apartments.  S was  a  good- 
natured  reprobate,  and  gave  the  child  of  his  meat  and  his  drink. 
I  used  to  like  to  lielp  the  little  man  from  my  breakfast,  and  see 
him  enjoy  the  meal.  As  he  sat,  with  his  bag  on  his  knees,  liis  head 
sunk  in  sleep,  his  little  highlows  scarce  reaching  the  floor,  Dick 
made  a  touching  little  picture.  The  whole  house  was  fond  of  him. 
The  tipsy  Captain  nodded  him  a  welcome  as  he  swaggered  down- 
stairs, stock,  and  coat,  and  waistcoat  in  hand,  to  his  worship's 
toilette  in  the  back  kitchen.  The  children  and  Dick  were  good 
friends ;  and  Elizabeth  patronised  him,  and  talked  with  him  now 
and  again,  in  lier  grave  way.  You  know  Clancy  the  composer? — 
know  him  better,  perhaps,  un<ler  his  name  of  Friedrich  Domier? 
Donner  used  to  write  music  to  Slumley's  wordsj  or  vice  versa ;  and 
would  come  now  and  again  to  Beak  Street,  wliere  he  and  his  poet 
would  try  their  joint  work  at  the  piano.  At  the  sound  of  tliat 
music,  little  Dick's  eyes  used  to  kindle.  "  Oh,  it's  prime  ! "  said 
the  young  enthusiast.  And  I  will  say,  that  good-natured  miscreant 
of  a  Slumley  not  only  gave  the  child  pence,  but  tickets  for  the 
play,  concerts,  and  so  forth.  Dick  had  a  neat  little  suit  of  clothes 
at  home ;  his  mother  made  him  a  very  nice  little  waistcoat  out  of 
my  undergraduate's  gown,  and  he  and  she,  a  decent  woman,  when 
in  their  best  raiment,  looked  respectable  enough  for  any  theatre-pit 
in  England. 

Amongst  other  places  of  public  amusement  which  he  attended, 
Mr.  Dick  frequented  the  Academy  where  Miss  Bellenden  danced, 
and  whence  poor  Elizabeth  Prior  issued  forth  after  midnight  in  her 
shabby  frock.  And  once,  tlie  Captain,  Elizabeth's  father  and  pro- 
tector, being  unable  to  walk  very  accurately,  and  noisy  and  incoherent 


THE    BACHELOR    OF    BEAK    STREET  69 

in  his  speech,  so  that  the  attention  of  Messieurs  of  the  police  was 
directed  towards  him,  Dick  came  up,  j)laccd  Elizabetli  and  her 
father  in  a  cab,  i)aid  the  fare  with  liis  own  money,  and  brought  tlie 
whole  party  home  in  triumph,  himself  sitting  on  the  box  of  the 
vehicle.  I  chanced  to  be  coming  home  myself  (from  one  of  Mrs. 
Wateringham's  elegant  tea  soirees,  in  Dorset  Square),  and  reached 
my  door  just  at  the  arrival  of  Dick  and  his  caravan.  "  Here, 
cabby  ! "  says  Dick,  handing  out  the  fare,  and  looking  with  his 
brightest  eyes.  It  is  pleasanter  to  look  at  that  beaming  little  face, 
than  at  the  Captain  yonder,  reeling  into  his  house,  supported  by 
his  daughter.  Dick  cried,  Elizabeth  told  me,  when,  a  week  after- 
wards, she  wanted  to  pay  him  back  his  shilling ;  and  she  said  he 
was  a  strange  child,  that  he  was. 

I  revert  to  my  friend  Lovel.  I  was  coaching  Lovel  for  his 
degree  (which,  between  ourselves,  I  think  he  never  would  have 
attained),  when  he  suddenly  announced  to  me,  from  Weymouth, 
where  he  was  ]wssing  the  vacation,  his  intention  to  quit  the 
University,  and  to  travel  abroad.  "  Events  have  haijpened,  dear 
friend,"  he  wrote,  "  which  will  make  my  mother's  home  miserable 
to  me  (I  little  knew  when  I  went  to  town  about  your  business, 
what  caused  her  wonderful  comjjlaisance  to  me).  She  would  have 
broken  my  heart,  Charles"  (my  Christian  name  is  Charles),  "but 
its  wounds  have  found  a  consoler  !  " 

Now,  in  this  little  chapter,  there  are  some  little  mysteries 
propounded,  upon  which,  were  I  not  above  any  such  artifice,  I 
miglit  easily  leave  the  reader  to  ponder  for  a  month. 

1.  Why  did  Mrs.  Prior,  at  the  lodgings,  persist  in  calling  the 
theatre  at  which  her  daughter  danced  the  Academy  ? 

2.  What  were  the  special  reasons  why  Mrs.  Lovel  should  be 
very  gracious  with  her  son,  and  give  him  <£150  as  soon  as  he  asked 
for  the  money  % 

3.  Why  was  Fred  Lovel's  heart  nearly  broken  1     And — 

4.  Who  was  his  consoler'? 

I  answer  these  at  once,  and  without  the  slightest  attemjit 
at  delay  or  circumlocution.  \.  jNIrs.  Prior,  who  had  repeatedly 
received  money  from  her  brother,  John  Erasmus  Sargent,  D.D., 
Master  of  St.  Boniface  College,  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  the 
Master  (whom  she  already  pestered  out  of  his  life)  heard  that  she 
had  sent  a  niece  of  his  on  the  stage,  he  would  never  give  her 
inother  shilling. 

2.  The  reason  why  Emma,  widow  of  the  late  Adolphus  Loeffel, 
of  Whitechapel  Road,  sugar-baker,  was  so  particularly  gracious  to 
her  son,  Adolphus  Frederick  Lovel,  Esquire,  of  Saint  Boniface 
College,  Oxbridge,  and   principal   ])artner  in   the  house  of  Loeffel 


70  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

aforesaid,  an  infant,  was  that  she,   Emma,  was  about  to  contract 
a  second  marriage  with  tlie  Reverend  Samuel  Bennington. 

3.  Fred  Lovel's  heart  was  so  very  much  broken  by  this 
intelligence,  that  he  gave  himself  airs  of  Hamlet,  dressed  in  black, 
wore  his  long  fair  hair  over  his  eyes,  and  exhibited  a  hundred  signs 
of  grief  and  desperation  ;  until— 

4.  Louisa  (widow  of  the  late  Sir  Popham  Baker,  of  Bakerstown, 
county  Kilkenny,  Baronet)  induced  Mr.  Lovel  to  take  a  trip  on 
the  Rhine  with  her  and  Cecilia,  fourth  and  only  unmarried  daughter 
of  the  aforesaid  Sir  Popham  Baker,  deceased. 

My  opinion  of  Cecilia  I  have  candidly  given  in  a  previous  page. 
I  adhere  to  that  oj^inion.,  I  shall  not  repeat  it.  The  subject  is 
disagreeable  to  me,  as  the  Avoman  herself  was  in  life.  Wliat  Fred 
found  in  her  to  admire  I  cannot  tell :  lucky  for  us  all  that  tastes, 
men,  women,  vary.  You  will  never  see  her  alive  in  this  history 
That  is  her  picture,  painted  by  the  late  Mr.  Gandish.  She  stands 
fingering  that  harp  with  which  she  has  often  driven  me  half  mad 
with  her  "  Tara's  Halls  "  and  her  "  Poor  Marianne."  She  used  to 
bully  Fred  so,  and  be  so  rude  to  his  guests,  that,  in  order  to  pacify 
hei',  he  would  meanly  say,  "  Do,  my  love,  let  us  have  a  little 
music ! "  and  thrumpty — thrumpty,  off  wcaild  go  her  gloves,  and 
"  Tara's  Halls  "  would  begin,  "  The  harp  that  once^'  indeed  !  the 
accursed  catgut  scarce  knew  any  other  nuisic,  and  "  once "  Avas  a 
hundred  times  at  least  in  my  hearing.  Then  came  the  period  when 
I  was  treated  to  the  cold  joint  which  I  have  mentioned ,  and,  not 
liking  it,  I  gave  up  going  to  Slirublands, 

So,  too,  did  my  Lady  Baker,  but  not  of  her  own  free  will, 
mind  you.  She  did  not  quit  the  premises  because  her  reception 
was  too  cold,  but  because  the  house  was  made  a  great  deal  too 
hot  for  her.  I  remember  Fred  coming  to  me  in  high  spirits,  and 
describing  to  me,  with  no  little  humour,  a  great  battle  between 
Cecilia  and  Lady  Baker,  and  her  Ladyship's  defeat  and  flight. 
She  fled,  however,  only  as  ftir  as  Putney  village,  where  she  formed 
again,  as  it  were,  and  fortified  herself  in  a  lodging.  Next  day  she 
made  a  desperate  but  feeble  attack,  presenting  herself  at  Shrublands 
lodge-gate,  and  threatening  tliat  she  and  sorrow  would  sit  down 
before  it ;  and  that  all  the  world  should  know  how  a  daughter 
treated  her  mother.  But  the  gate  was  locked,  and  Barnet,  the 
gardener,  appeared  behind  it,  saying,  "  Since  you  are  come,  my  Lady, 
perhaps  you  will  pay  my  missis  the  four-and-twenty  shillings  you 
borrowed  of  her."  And  he  grinned  at  her  through  the  bars,  until 
she  fled  before  him,  cowering.  Lovel  paid  the  little  forgotten  account; 
the  best  four-and-twenty  shillings  he  had  ever  laid  out,  he  said. 

Eight  years   passed  away;   during  the  last  four  of  which  I 


THE    BACHELOR  OF    BEAK    STREET  71 

scarce  saw  my  old  frieiwl,  except  at  clubs  and  taverns,  where  we 
met  ])rivily,  and  renewed,  not  old  warmth  and  hilarity,  but  old 
kindness.  One  winter  he  took  his  family  abroad ;  Cecilia's  health 
was  delicate,  Lovel  told  me,  and  the  doctor  had  advised  that  she 
should  spend  a  winter  in  the  South.  He  did  not  stay  with  them  ; 
he  had  pressing  affairs  at  home ;  he  liad  embarked  in  many  busi- 
nesses besides  the  paternal  sugar-bakery ;  was  concerned  in  com- 
panies, a  director  of  a  joint-stock  bank,  a  man  in  whose  fire  were 
many  irons.  A  faithful  governess  was  with  the  children  ;  a  faith- 
ful man  and  maid  were  in  attendance  on  the  invalid ;  and  Lovel, 
adoring  his  wife,  as  he  certainly  did,  yet  supported  her  absence 
with  great  equanimity. 

In  the  spring  I  was  not  a  little  scared  to  read  amongst  the 
deaths  in  the  news])aper  : — "  At  Naples,  of  scarlet  fever,  on  the  25th 
ult.,  Cecilia,  wife  of  Frederick  Lovel,  Esquire,  and  daughter  of  the  late 
Sir  Popham  Baker,  Baronet."  I  knew  what  my  friend's  grief  would 
be.  He  had  hurried  abroad  at  the  news  of  her  illness ;  he  did  not 
reach  Naples  in  time  to  receive  the  last  words  of  his  poor  Cecilia. 

Some  months  after  the  catastrophe,  I  had  a  note  from  Shrub- 
lands.  Lovel  wrote  quite  in  the  old  affectionate  tone.  He  begged 
his  dear  old  friend  to  go  to  him,  and  console  him  in  his  solitude. 
Would  I  come  to  dinner  that  evening  1 

Of  course  I  went  off  to  him  straightway.  I  found  him  in  deep 
sables  in  the  drawing-room  with  his  children,  and  I  confess  I  was 
not  astonished  to  see  my  Lady  Baker  once  more  in  that  room. 

"You  seem  surprised  to  see  me  here,  Mr.  Batchelor?"  says  her 
Ladyship,  with  that  grace  and  good  breeding  which  she  generally 
exhibited ;  for  if  she  accejited  benefits,  she  took  care  to  insult  those 
from  whom  she  received  them. 

"  Indeed,  no,''  said  I,  looking  at  Lovel,  who  piteously  hung 
down  his  head.  He  had  his  little  Cissy  at  his  knee :  he  was 
sitting  under  the  portrait  of  the  defunct  nuisician,  whose  harp, 
now  muffled  in  leather,  stood  dimly  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 

"  I  am  here  not  at  my  own  wish,  but  from  a  feeling  of  duty 
towards  that — departed — angel !  "  says  Lady  Baker,  pointing  to 
the  picture. 

"  I  am  sure  when  mamma  was  here,  you  were  always  quarrel- 
ling," says  little  Popham,  with  a  scowl. 

"This  is  the  way  those  innocent  children  have  been  taught  to 
regard  me,"  cries  grandmamma. 

"Silence,  Pop,"  says  papa,  "and  don't  be  a  rude  boy." 

"  Isn't  Pop  a  rude  boy  1 "  echoes  Cissy. 

"Silence,  Pop,"  continues  papa,  "or  you  must  go  up  to  Miss 
Prior." 


CHAPTER  II 

IN   IVHICH  MISS  PIUOR  IS  ' KEPT  AT  THE  DOOR 

OF  course  we  all  know  who  she  Avas,  the  Miss  Prior  of  Shrub 
lauds,  whom  papa  and  grandmamma  (-ailed  to  the  unruly 
children.  Years  had  passed  since  I  had  sliaken  the  Beak 
Street  dust  off  my  feet.  The  brass  plate  of  "  Prior  '"'  was  removed 
from  the  once  familiar  door,  and  screwed,  for  what  I  can  tell,  on  to 
the  late  reprobate  owner's  coffin.  A  little  eruption  of  mushroom- 
formed  brass  knobs  I  saw  on  the  door-post  when  I  passed  by  it  last 
week,  and  Caf:^  des  Ambassadeuks  was  thereon  inscribed,  with 
three  fly-blown  blue  teacups,  a  couple  of  coffee-pots  of  the  well- 
known  Britannia  metal,  and  two  freckled  copies  of  the  Inde'pendance 
Beige  hanging  over  the  window-blind.  Were  those  their  Excel- 
lencies the  Ambassadors  at  the  door,  smoking  cheroots'?  Pool  and 
Billiards  were  written  on  their  countenances,  their  hats,  their 
elbows.  They  may  have  been  ambassadors  down  on  their  luck, 
as  the  phrase  is.  They  were  in  disgrace,  no  doubt,  at  the  court 
of  her  imperial  majesty  Queen  Fortune.  Men  as  shabby  have  re- 
trieved tiieir  disgraces  ere  now,  washed  their  cloudy  faces,  strapped 
their  dingy  waistcoats  witli  cordons,  and  stepped  into  fine  carriages 
from  quarters  not  a  whit  more  reputable  than  the  "Cafd  des 
Ambassadeurs."  If  I  lived  in  the  Leicester  Square  neighbourhood, 
and  kept  a  cafd,  I  would  always  treat  foreigners  with  respect. 
They  may  be  billiard-markers  now,  or  doing  a  little  shady  police 
business  ;  but  why  should  they  not  afterwards  be  generals  and 
great  officers  of  state?  Suppose  that  gentleman  is  at  present  a 
barber,  witli  his  tongs  and  stick  of  fixature  for  the  moustaches,  how 
do  you  know  he  has  not  his  epaulettes  and  his  baton  de  marechal  in 
the  same  pouch  ?  I  see  engraven  on  the  second-floor  bell,  on  my 
rooms,  "  Plugwell."  Who  can  Plugwell  be,  whose  feet  now  warm 
at  the  fire  where  I  sat  many  a  long  evening'?  And  this  gentleman 
with  the  fur  collar,  the  straggling  beard,  the  frank  and  engaging 
leer,  the  somewhat  husky  voice,  who  is  calling  out  on  the  door- 
steji,  "Step  in,  and  'ave  it  done.  Your  correct  likeness,  only  one 
shilling " — is  he  an  ambassador  too  1  Ah,  no :  he  is  only  the 
char ge-d' affaires  of  a  photographer  who  lives  upstairs :  no  doubt 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR        73 

where  the  little  ones  used  to  be.  Bless  me  !  Photography  was  an 
infant,  and  in  the  nursery,  too,  when  toe  lived  in  Beak  Street. 

Shall  I  own  that,  for  old  times'  sake,  I  went  upstairs,  and  "  'ad 
it  done" — that  correct  likeness,  price  one  shilling'?  Would  Some 
One  (I  have  said,  I  think,  that  the  party  in  question  is  well  married 
in  a  distant  island)  like  to  have  the  thing,  I  wonder,  and  be  rendnded 
of  a  man  whom  she  knew  in  life's  prime,  with  brown  curly  locks,  as 
she  looked  on  the  effigy  of  tliis  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  forehead 
as  bare  as  a  billiard-ball  % 

As  I  went  up  and  down  that  darkling  stair,  the  ghosts  of  the 
Prior  children  peeped  out  from  the  banisters ;  the  little  faces  smiled 
in  the  twilight :  it  may  be  wounds  (of  the  heart)  throbbed  and  bled 
again, — oh,  how  freshly  and  keenly  !  How  infernally  I  have  suflered 
beliind  that  door  in  that  room — I  mean  that  one  where  Plugwell 
now  lives.  Confound  Plugwell !  I  wonder  what  that  woman  thinks 
of  me  as  she  sees  me  shaking  my  fist  at  the  door  %  Do  you  think 
me  mad,  madam  %  I  don't  care  if  you  do.  Do  you  think  when  I 
spoke  anon  of  the  ghosts  of  Prior's  children,  I  mean  that  any  of 
them  are  dead  %  None  are,  that  I  know  of.  A  great  hulking 
Bluecoat-boy,  with  fluffy  whiskers,  spoke  to  me  not  long  since,  in 
an  awful  bass  voice,  and  announced  his  name  as  "  Gus  Prior."  And 
"  How's  Elizabeth  % "  he  added,  nodding  his  bullet  head.  Elizabeth, 
indeed,  you  gi-eat  vulgar  boy  !  Elizabeth, — and,  by  the  way,  how 
Jong  we  have  been  keeping  her  waiting  ! 

You  see,  as  I  beheld  her,  a  heap  of  memories  struck  upon  me, 
and  I  could  not  help  chattering;  wlien  of  course^and  you  are 
perfectly  right,  only  you  might  just  as  well  have  left  the  observation 
alone  :  for  I  knew  quite  well  what  you  were  going  to  say — when  I 
had  much  better  have  held  my  tongue.  Elizabetli  means  a  history 
to  me.  She  came  to  me  at  a  critical  period  of  my  life.  Bleeding 
and  wounded  from  the  conduct  of  that  other  individual  (by  her 
I'resent  name  of  Mrs.  O'D — her  present  O'D-ous  name — I  say,  I 
will  never — never  call  her) — desperately  Avoundcd  and  miserable  on 
my  return  from  a  neighbouring  capital,  I  went  back  to  my  lodgings 
in  Beak  Street,  and  there  there  grew  up  a  strange  intimacy  between 
me  and  my  landlady's  young  daughter.  I  told  her  my  story — 
indeed,  I  believe  I  told  anybody  who  would  listen.  She  seemed 
to  compassionate  me.  She  would  come  wistfully  into  my  rooms, 
bringing  me  my  gruel  and  things  (I  could  scarcely  bear  to  eat  for 
a  whde  after — after  that  aff'air  to  which  I  may  have  alluded  before) — 
she  used  to  come  to  me,  and  she  used  to  pity  me,  and  I  used  to  tell 
her  all,  and  to  tell  her  over  and  over  again.  Days  and  days  have  I 
passed  tearing  my  heart  out  in  that  second-floor  room  which  answers  to 
the  name  of  Plugwell  now.     Afternoon  after  afternoon  have  I  spent 


74  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

there,  and  poured  out  my  story  of  love  and  wrong  to  Elizabeth, 
shown  her  that  waistcoat  I  told  you  of — that  glove  (her  hand  wasn't 
so  very  small  either) — her  letters,  those  two  or  three  vacuous, 
meaningless  letters,  with  "  My  dear  sir — mamma  ho2)es  you  will 
come  to  tea ; "  or,  "  If  dear  Mr.  Batchelor  should  be  riding  in  the 
Plujenix  Park  near  the  Long  Milestone,  about  2,  my  sister  and  I 
will  be  in  tlie  car,  and,"  &c. ;  or,  "  Oh,  you  kind  man  !  the  tickets  " 
(she  called  it  tickuts — by  heaven  !  she  did)  "  were  too  welcome, 
and  the  houquays  too  lovely  "  (this  word,  I  saw,  had  been  operated 
on  with  a  penknife.  I  found  no  faults,  not  even  in  her  spelling — 
then)  ;  or — never  mind  what  more.  But  more  of  this  puling,  of 
this  humbug,  of  this  bad  S2')ellin[i,  of  this  infernal  jilting,  swindling, 
heartless  hypocrisy  (all  her  mother's  doing,  I  own ;  for  until  he  got 
his  place,  my  rival  was  not  so  well  received  as  I  was) — more  of  this 
RUBBISH,  I  say,  I  showed  Elizabeth,  and  she  pitied  me ! 

She  used  to  come  to  me  day  after  day,  and  I  used  to  talk  to 
her.  She  iised  not  to  say  mucii.  Perhaps  she  did  not  listen  ;  but 
I  did  not  care  for  that.  On — and  on — and  on  I  would  go  with  my 
prate  about  ray  passion,  my  wrongs,  and  despair ;  and  untiring  as 
my  complaints  were,  still  more  constant  was  my  little  hearer's  com- 
passion. Mamma's  shrill  voice  would  come  to  put  an  end  to  our 
conversation,  and  she  would  rise  up  with  an  "  Oil,  bother ! "  and 
go  away :  but  the  next  day  the  good  girl  was  sure  to  come  to  me 
again,  wlien  we  would  have  another  repetition  of  our  tragedy. 

I  daresay  you  are  beginning  to  suppose  (what,  after  all,  is  a 
very  common  case,  and  certainly  no  conjurer  is  wanted  to  make  the 
guess)  that  out  of  all  this  crying  and  sentimentality,  which  a  soft- 
hearted old  fool  of  a  man  poured  out  to  a  young  girl — out  of  all  this 
whimpering  and  pity,  something  which  is  said  to  be  akin  to  pity 
might  arise.  But  in  this,  my  good  madam,  you  are  utterly  wrong. 
Some  people  have  the  small-pox  twice ;  /  do  not.  In  my  case,  if 
a  heart  is  broke,  it's  broke  :  if  a  flower  is  withered,  it's  withered. 
If  I  choose  to  put  my  grief  in  a  ridiculous  light,  why  not  %  why  do 
you  suppose  I  am  going  to  make  a  tragedy  of  such  an  old  used-up, 
battered,  stale,  vulgar,  trivial  every-day  subject  as  a  jilt  who  plays 
with  a  man's  passion,  and  lauglis  at  him,  and  leaves  him '?  Tragedy 
indeed!  Oh,  yes!  poison  —  black-edged  note-paper  —  Waterloo 
Bridge — one  more  unfortunate,  and  so  forth  !  No :  if  she  goes,  let 
her  go  ! — si  celeres  quatit  pennas,  1  puff  the  Avhat-d'ye-call-it  away  ! 
But  I'll  have  no  tragedy,  mind  you. 

Well,  it  must  be  confessed  that  a  man  desperately  in  love  (as  I 
fear  I  must  own  I  then  was,  and  a  good  deal  cut  up  by  Glorvina's 
conduct)  is  a  most  selfish  being  :  whilst  women  arc  so  soft  and  un- 
selfish that  they  can  forget  or  disguise  their  own  sorrows  for  a 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR        75 

while,  Avhilst  they  minister  to  a  friend  in  affliction.  I  did  not  see, 
though  I  talked  with  her  daily,  on  my  return  from  that  accursed 
Dublin,  that  my  little  Elizabeth  was  pale  and  distraite,  and  sad, 
and  silent.  She  would  sit  quite  dumb  Avhilst  I  chattered,  her  hands 
between  her  knees,  or  draw  one  of  them  over  her  eyes.  She  would 
say,  "  Oh,  yes  !  Poor  fellow — jwor  fellow  !  "  now  and  again,  as 
giving  a  melancholy  confirmation  of  my  dismal  stories;  but  mostly 
she  remained  quiet,  her  head  drooping  towards  the  ground,  a  hand 
to  her  chin,  her  feet  to  tlie  fender. 

I  was  one  day  harping  on  the  usual  string.  I  was  telling 
EHzabeth  how,  after  presents  had  been  accepted,  after  letters  had 
passed  between  us  (if  her  scrawl  could  be  called  letters,  if  my  im- 
passioned song  could  be  so  construed),  after  everything  but  the 
actual  word  had  passed  our  lips— I  was  telling  Elizabeth  how,  on 
one  accursed  day,  Cxlorvina's  mother  greeted  me  on  my  arrival  in 
M-rr-n  Square  by  saying,  "  Dear,  dear  Mr.  Batchelor,  we  look  on 
you  quite  as  one  of  the  family  !  Congratidate  me — congratulate 
my  child !  Dear  Tom  has  got  his  api)ointment  as  Recorder  of 
Tobago;  and  it  is  to  be  a  match  between  him  and  his  cousin 
Glory." 

"  His  cousin  What  ?  "  I  shriek  with  a  maniac  laugh. 

•'  My  poor  Glorvina !  Sure  the  cliildren  have  been  fond  of 
each  other  ever  since  they  could  speak.  I  knew  your  kind  heart 
would  be  the  first  to  rejoice  in  their  happiness." 

And  so,  say  I — ending  the  story — I,  who  thought  myself  loved, 
was  left  without  a  pang  of  pity  :  I,  who  could  mention  a  hundred 
reasons  why  I  thought  Glorvina  well  disposed  to  me,  was  told  she 
regarded  me  as  an  uncle  !  Were  her  letters  such  as  nieces  write  % 
Who  ever  heard  of  an  uncle  walking  round  Merrion  Square  for 
hours  of  a  rainy  night,  and  looking  up  to  a  bedroom  window, 
becaus.e  his  niece,  forsooth,  was  behind  if?  I  had  set  my  whole 
heart  on  the  cast,  and  this  was  the  return  I  got  for  it.  For  montlis 
she  cajoles  me — her  eyes  follow  me,  her  cursed  smiles  welcome  and 
fascinate  me,  and  at  a  moment,  at  the  beck  of  another — she  laughs 
at  me  and  leaves  me  ! 

At  this,  my  little  pale  Elizabeth,  still  hanging  down,  cries, 
"  Oh,  the  villain !  the  villain  ! "  and  sobs  so  that  you  might  have 
thought  her  little  heart  would  break. 

"Nay,"  said  I,  "my  dear,  Mr.  O'Dowd  is  no  villain.  His 
uncle.  Sir  Hector,  was  as  gallant  an  old  officer  as  any  in  the  service. 
His  amit  was  a  Molloy,  of  MoUoystown,  and  they  are  of  excellent 
familv,  though,  I  believe,  of  embarrassed  circumstances ;  and  young 
Tom-^ " 

"  Tom  /  "  cries  Elizabeth,  with  a  pale  bewildered  look.     "  Ilis 


76  LOVEL   THE    WIDOWER 

name  wasn't   Tom,   dear  Mr.  Batclielor;  his  name  was    Woo-woo 
illlam  !  '"'  and  the  tears  begin  again. 

All,  my  child  !  my  child  !  my  poor  young  creature  i  and  you, 
too,  have  felt  the  infernal  stroke.  You,  too,  have  passed  the  tossing 
nights  of  pain — have  heard  the  dreary  hours  toll — have  looked  at 
the  cheerless  sunrise  with  your  blank  sleepless  eyes — have  woke 
out  of  dreams,  mayhap,  in  which  the  beloved  one  was  smiling  on 
you,  whispering  love-words — oh !  how  sweet  and  fondly  remem- 
bered !  What ! — your-heart  has  been  robbed,  too,  and  your  treasury 
is  rifled  and  empty  ! — -poor  girl !  And  I  looked  in  that  sad  face, 
and  saw  no  grief  there  !  You  could  do  your  little  sweet  endeavour 
to  soothe  my  wounded  heart,  and  I  never  saw  yours  was  bleeding ! 
Did  you  suffer  more  than  I  did,  my  poor  little  maid  1  I  hope  not. 
Are  you  so  young,  and  is  all  the  flower  of  life  blighted  for  you  ?  the 
cup  without  savour,  the  sun  blotted  or  almost  invisible  over  your 
head  1  The  truth  came  on  me  all  at  once  :  I  felt  ashamed  that  my 
own  selfish  grief  should  have  made  me  blind  to  hers. 

"What!"  said  I,  "my  poor  chdd?  Was  it  .  .  .  ?"  and  I 
pointed  with  my  finger  dowmvards. 

She  nodded  her  poor  head. 

I  knew  it  was  the  lodger  who  had  taken  the  first  floor  shortly 
after  Slumley's  departure.  He  was  an  officer  in  the  Bombay 
Army.  He  had  had  the  lodgings  for  three  months.  He  had  sailed 
for  India  shortly  before  I  returned  home  from  Dublin. 

Elizabeth  is  waiting  all  this  time — shall  she  come  in  ?  No,  not 
yet.     I  have  still  a  little  more  to  say  about  the  Priors. 

You  understand  that  she  was  no  longer  Miss  Prior  of  Beak 
Street,  and  that  Tnansion,  even  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  had 
been  long  handed  over  to  other  tenants.  The  Captain  dead,  his 
widow  with  many  tears  pressed  me  to  remain  with  her,  and  I  did, 
never  having  been  able  to  resist  that  kind  of  appeal.  Her  state- 
ments regarding  her  affairs  were  not  strictly  correct. — Are  not 
women  sometimes  incorrect  about  money  matters  1 — A  landlord  (not 
vmjustly  indignant)  quickly  handed  over  the  mansion  in  Beak  Street 
to  other  tenants.  The  Queen's  taxes  swooped  down  on  poor  Mrs. 
Prior's  scanty  furniture — on  hers  ?— on  mine  likewise:  on  my 
neatly-bound  College  books,  emblazoned  with  the  effigy  of  Boni- 
facius,  our  patron,  and  of  Bishop  Budgeon,  our  founder;  on  my 
elegant  Raphael  Morghen  prints,  purchased  in  undergraduate  days 
— ^(ye  Powers !  what  did  make  us  boys  go  tick  for  fifteen-guinea 
proofs  of  Ra])hael,  Dying  Stags,  Duke  of  Wellington  Banquets,  and 
the  like  1) ;  my  harmonium,  at  which  some  one  has  warbled  songs 
of  my  composition — (I  mean  the  words,  artfully  describing  my 
passion,  my  hopes^  or  my  despair);  on  my  rich  set  of  Bohemian 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR       77 

glass,  bought  on  the  Zeil,  Frankfort  0.  M. ;  on  my  picture  of  my 
father,  the  late  Captain  Batchelor  (Hoppner),  R.N. ;  in  white 
ducks,  and  a  telescope,  pointing,  of  course,  to  a  tempest,  in  tlie 
midst  of  wliicli  was  a  naval  engagement ;  on  my  poor  mother's 
miniature,  by  old  Adam  Buck,  in  pencil  and  pink,  with  no  waist  to 
speak  of  at  all ;  my  tea  and  cream  pots  (bullion),  with  a  hundred 
such  fond  knicknacks  as  decorate  the  chamber  of  a  lonely  man.  I 
found  all  these  household  treasures  in  possession  of  the  myrmidons 
of  the  law,  and  had  to  pay  the  Priors'  taxes  with  this  hand,  before 
I  could  be  redintegrated  in  my  own  property.  Mrs.  Prior  could 
only  pay  me  back  with  a  widow's  tears  and  blessings  (Prior  having 
quitted  a  world  where  he  had  long  ceased  to  be  of  use  or  ornament). 
The  tears  and  blessings,  I  say,  she  offered  me  freely,  and  they  were 
all  very  well.  But  why  go  on  tampering  with  the  tea-box,  madam  ? 
Why  put  your  finger — your  finger  1 — your  whole  paw — in  the  jam- 
pot] And  it  is  a  horrible  fact  that  the  wine  and  spirit  bottles 
were  just  as  leaky  after  Prior's  decease  as  they  had  been  during  his 
disreputable  lifetime.  One  afternoon,  having  a  sudden  occasion  to 
return  to  my  lodgings,  I  found  my  wretched  landlady  in  the  very 
act  of  marauding  sherry.  She  gave  an  hysterical  laugh,  and  then 
burst  into  tears.  She  declared  that  since  her  poor  Prior's  death 
she  hardly  knew  what  she  said  or  did.  She  may  have  been 
incoherent ;  slie  was ;  but  she  certainly  spoke  truth  on  this 
occasion. 

I  am  speaking  lightly — flippantly,  if  you  please — about  this  old 
Mrs.  Prior,  with  her  hard  eager  smile,  her  wizened  face,  her  frown- 
ing look,  her  cruel  voice ;  and  yet,  goodness  knows,  I  could,  if  I 
liked,  be  as  serious  as  a  sermoniser.  Why,  this  woman  had  once 
red  cheeks,  and  was  well-looking  enough,  and  told  few  lies,  and 
stole  no  sherry,  and  felt  the  tender  passions  of  tlie  heart,  and  I 
daresay  kissed  the  weak  old  beneficed  clergyman  her  fether  very 
fondly  and  remorsefully  tliat  niglit  v/hen  she  took  leave  of  him  to 
skip  round  to  the  back  garden-gate  and  run  away  with  Mr.  Prior. 
Maternal  instinct  she  had,  for  she  nursed  her  young  as  best  she 
could  from  her  lean  breast,  and  went  about  hungrily,  robbing  and 
pilfering  for  them.  On  Sundays  she  furbished  up  that  threadbare 
black  silk  gown  and  bonnet,  ironed  the  collar,  and  clung  desperately 
to  church.  She  had  a  feeble  pencil-drawing  of  the  vicarage  in 
Dorsetshire,  and  silhoiiettes  of  her  father  and  mother,  which  were 
hung  up  in  the  lodgings  Mherever  she  went.  She  migrated  much  : 
wherever  she  went  she  fastened  on  the  gown  of  the  clergyman  of 
the  parish  ;  spoke  of  her  dear  fatlier  the  vicar,  of  her  wealthy  and 
gifted  lirotlier  tlie  Master  of  Boniface,  with  a  reticence  whicli  im- 
plied that  Doctor  Sargent  might  do  more  for  his  poor  sister  and  her 


78  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

family,  if  he  would.  She  plumed  herself  (oh  !  those  poor  moulting 
old  plumes  !)  upon  belonging  to  the  clergy  ;  had  read  a  good  deal  of 
good  sound  old-fiishioned  theology  in  early  life,  and  wrote  a  noble 
hand,  in  which  she  had  been  used  to  copy  her  father's  sermons. 
She  used  to  put  cases  of  conscience,  to  present  her  humble  duty  to 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Green,  and  a;k  explanation  of  such  and  such  a 
jiassage  of  his  admirable  sermon,  and  bring  the  subject  round  so  as 
to  be  reminded  of  certain  ([UDtations  of  Hooker,  Beveridge,  Jeremy 
Taylor.  I  think  siie  had  an  old  commonplace  book  with  a  score  of 
these  extracts,  and  she  worked  them  in  very  amusingly  and  dexter- 
ously into  her  conversation.  Green  would  be  interested :  perhaps 
pretty  young  Mrs.  Green  would  call,  secretly  rather  shocked  at  the 
coldness  of  old  Doctor  Brown,  the  rector,  about  Mrs.  Prior.  Between 
Green  and  Mrs.  Prior  money  transactions  would  ensue:  Mrs.  Green's 
visits  would  cease  :  Mrs.  Prior  was  an  expensive  woman  to  know. 
I  remember  Pye  of  Maudlin,  just  before  he  "  went  over,"  was  ])er- 
petually  in  Mrs.  Prior's  back  parlour  with  little  books,  pictures, 
medals,  &c.  &c. — you  know.  Tliey  called  poor  Jack  a  Jesuit  at 
Oxbridge ;  but  one  year  at  Rome  I  met  him  (with  a  half-crown 
sliaved  out  of  his  head,  and  a  hat  as  big  as  Don  Basilio's) ;  and  he 
said,  "  My  dear  Batchelor,  do  you  know  that  person  at  your  lodg- 
ings 1  I  think  she  was  an  artful  creature  !  She  borrowed  fourteen 
pounds  of  me,  and  I  forget  how  much  of — seven,  I  think — of  Bar- 
foot,  of  Corpus,  just — just  before  we  were  received.  And  I  believe 
she  absolutely  got  another  loan  from  Pummel,  to  be  able  to  get  out 
of  the  hands  of  us  Jesuits.  Are  you  going  to  hear  the  Cardinal  1 
Do — do  go  and  hear  him — everybody  does:  it's  the  most  fashionable 
thing  in  Rome,"  And  from  this  I  opine  that  there  are  .slyboots  in 
other  communions  besides  that  of  Rome. 

Now  Mamma  Prior  had  not  been  unaware  of  the  love-passages 
between  her  daughter  and  the  fugitive  Bombay  captain.  Like 
Elizabeth,  slie  called  Captain  Walkingham  "  villain  "  readily  enough  ; 
but,  if  I  know  woman's  nature  in  the  least  (and  I  don't),  the  old 
sclienier  liad  thrown  her  daughter  only  too  frequently  in  the  officer's 
way,  liail  done  no  small  portion  of  the  flirting  herself,  had  allowed 
poor  Bessy  to  receive  presents  from  Captain  Walkingham,  and  had 
been  the  manager  and  directress  of  much  of  the  mischief  which 
ensued.  You  see,  in  this  humble  class  of  life,  unprincipled  mothers 
will  coax  and  wheeille  and  cajole  gentlemen  whom  they  suppose  to 
be  eligible,  in  order  to  procure  an  establishment  for  their  darling 
children  !  What  the  Prioress  did  was  done  from  the  best  motives 
of  course.  "  Never — never  did  the  monster  see  Bessy  without  me, 
or  one  or  two  of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  .Jack  and  dear  Ellen 
are  as  sharp  children  as  any  in  England  ! "  protested  the  indignant 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT   AT    THE    DOOR       79 

Mrs.  Prior  to  me  ;  "  and  if  one  of  my  Leys  had  been  grown  up,  Walk- 
inghani  never  would  have  dared  to  act  as  he  did — the  unjjrincipled 
wretch  !  My  poor  husband  would  have  punished  the  villain  as  he 
deserved;  but  what  could  he  do  in  his  shattered  state  of  health?  Oh! 
you  men, — you  men,  Mr.  Batchelor  !  how  unprincijjled  you  are  !  " 

"  Why,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior,"  said  I,  "  you  let  Elizabeth  come 
to  my  room  often  enough.'' 

"To  have  the  conversation  of  her  uncle's  friend,  of  an  educated 
man,  of  a  man  so  much  older  than  herself!  Of  course,  dear  sir  ! 
Would  not  a  mother  wish  every  advantage  for  her  child?  and  whom 
could  I  trust,  if  not  you,  who  have  ever  been  such  a  friend  to  me 
and  mine?"  asks  Mrs.  Prior,  wiping  jier  dry  eyes  with  the  corner 
of  her  handkerchief,  as  she  stands  by  my  fire,  my  monthly  bills  in 
hand, — written  in  her  neat  old-fashioned  writing,  and  calculated 
with  tliat  ]»rodigal  liberality  which  she  always  exercised  in  com- 
piling the  little  accounts  between  us.  "Why.  bless  me  !"  says  my 
cousin,  little  Mrs.  Skinner,  coming  to  see  me  once  when  I  was  un- 
well, and  examining  one  of  the  just  mentioned  documents, — "  bless 
me !  Charles,  you  consume  more  tea  than  all  my  family,  though 
w^e  are  seven  in  the  parlour,  and  as  much  sugar  and  butter, — well, 
it's  no  wonder  you  are  bilious  ! " 

"  But  then,  my  dear,  I  like  my  tea  so  very  strong,"  said  I ; 
"  and  you  take  yours  so  uncommonly  mild.  I  have  remarked  it  at 
your  ])arties." 

"  It's  a  shame  that  a  man  slinulil  be  robbed  so,"  cried  Mrs.  S. 

"  How  kind  it  is  of  you  to  cry  thieves,  Flora  !  "  I  reply. 

"  It's  my  duty,  Charles  !  "  exclaims  my  cousin.  "  And  I  should 
like  to  know  who  that  great,  tall,  gawky,  red-haired  girl  in  the 
passage  is ! " 

Ah  me !  the  name  of  the  only  woman  who  ever  had  possession 
of  this  heart  was  not  Elizabeth ;  though  I  own  I  did  think  at  one 
time  that  my  little  schemer  of  a  landlady  would  not  have  objected 
if  I  had  proposed  to  make  Miss  Prior  Mrs.  Batchelor.  And  it  is 
not  only  the  poor  and  needy  who  have  this  mania,  but  the  rich 
too.  In  the  very  liighest  circles,  as  I  am  informed  by  the  best 
authorities,  this  match-making  goes  on.  Ah  woman — woman  ! — 
ah  wedded  wife ! — ah  fond  mother  of  fair  daughters  !  how  strange 
thy  passion  is  to  add  to  thy  titles  that  of  mother-in-law  !  I  am 
told,  when  you  have  got  the  title,  it  is  often  but  a  bitterness  and 
a  (lisai)pointment.  Very  likely  tlie  son-in-law  is  rude  to  you,  the 
coarse  ungrateful  brute  !  and  very  possibly  the  daughter  rebels,  the 
thankless  serpent !  And  yet  you  will  go  on  scheming :  and  having 
met  only  with  disapj)ointment  from  Louisa  and  her  husband,  you 
will   try  and  get  one  for  Jemima,  and  Maria,  and  down  even  ty 


80  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

little  Toddles  coming  out  of  the  nursery  in  her  red  shoes !  When 
you  see  her  with  little  Tommy,  your  neiglihour's  child,  fighting  over 
the  same  Noah's  ark,  or  clambering  on  the  same  rocking-horse,  I 
make  no  doubt,  in  your  fond  silly  head,  you  are  thinking,  "  Will 
those  little  people  meet  some  twenty  years  hence  1 "  And  you  give 
Tommy  a  very  large  piece  of  cake,  and  have  a  fine  present  for  him 
on  the  Christmas  tree — you  know  you  do,  though  he  is  but  a  rude 
noisy  child,  and  has  already  beaten  Toddles,  and  taken  her  doll 
away  from  her,  and  made  her  cry.  I  remember,  when  I  myself 
was  suffering  from  the  conduct  of  a  young  woman  in — in  a  cajntal 
which  is  distinguished  by  a  viceregal  Court — and  from  her  heart- 
lessness,  as  well  as  that  of  her  relative,  who  I  once  thought  would 
be  mi/  mother-in-law — shrieking  out  to  a  friend  who  happened  to 
be  spouting  some  lines  from  Tennyson's  "  Ulysses  "  : — "  By  George  ! 
Warrington,  I  have  no  doubt  that  when  the  young  sirens  set  their 
green  caps  at  the  old  Greek  captain  and  his  crew,  waving  and 
beckoning  him  with  their  white  arms  and  glancing  smiles,  and 
wheedling  him  witli  their  sweetest  pipes — I  make  no  doubt,  sir, 
tliat  the  mother  sirens  were  behind  the  rocks  (with  their  dyed 
fronts  and  cheeks  painted,  so  as  to  resist  water),  and  calling  out 
'  Now,  Halcyone,  my  child,  that  air  from  the  Pirata !  Now, 
Glaukopis,  dear,  look  well  at  that  old  gentleman  at  the  helm  ! 
Bathykolpos,  love,  there's  a  young  sailor  on  the  maintop,  who  will 
tumble  right  down  into  your  lap  if  you  beckon  him  ! '  And  so  on 
— and  so  on."  And  I  laughed  a  wild  shriek  of  despair.  For  I, 
too,  have  been  on  tl:e  dangerous  island,  and  come  away  thence, 
mad,  furious,  wanting  a  strait-waistcoat. 

And  so,  when  a  white-armed  siren,  named  Glorvina,  was 
bedevilling  7ne  with  her  all  too  tempting  ogling  and  singing,  I  did 
not  see  at  the  time,  but  no7v  I  know,  that  her  artful  mother  was 
egging  that  artful  child  on. 

How,  when  the  Captain  died,  bailiffs  and  executions  took 
possession  of  his  premises,  I  have  told  in  a  previous  page,  nor  do 
I  care  to  enlarge  much  upon  the  odious  theme.  I  think  the  bailiffs 
were  on  the  premises  before  Prior's  exit :  but  he  did  not  know  of 
their  presence.  If  I  had  to  buy  them  out,  'twas  no  great  matter : 
only  I  say  it  was  hard  of  Mrs.  Prior  to  represent  me  in  the 
cliaracter  of  Shylock  to  the  Master  of  Boniface.  Well — well ! 
I  suppose  there  are  other  gentlemen  besides  Mr.  Charles  Batchelor 
who  have  been  misrepresented  in  this  life.  Sargent  and  I  made 
up  matters  afterwards,  and  Miss  Bessy  Avas  the  cause  of  our  coming 
together  again.  "Upon  my  word,  my  dear  Batchelor,"  says  he 
one  Christmas,  when  I  went  up  to  the  old  College,  "I  did  not 
know   how  much    my — ahem  ! — my   family  was    obligecl  to  you  ! 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR        81 

My — ahem  ! — niece,  Miss  Piior,  has  informed  me  of  various  acts 
of — ahem  ! — generosity  wliich  you  showed  to  my  poor  sister,  and 
her  still  more  wretched  liusl)and.  You  got  my  second — ahem  ! — 
nephew — pardon  me  if  I  forget  his  Cluistian  name — into  the 
what-d'you-caU'em — Bhiecoat  School ;  you  have  been,  on  various 
occasions,  of  considerable  ])ecuniary  service  to  my  sister's  family. 
A  man  need  not  take  high  university  honours  to  have  a  good — 
ahem  ! — heart ;  and,  upon  my  word,  Batchelor,  I  and  my — ahem  ! — 
wife  are  sincerely  obliged  to  you  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Master,"'  said  I,  "  there  is  a  point  upon  which 
you  ought  really  to  be  obliged  to  me,  and  in  which  I  have  been  the 
means  of  putting  money  into  your  pocket  too." 

"  I  confess  I  fail  to  comprehend  you,"  says  the  Master,  with  his 
grandest  air. 

"  I  have  got  you  and  Mrs.  Sargent  a  very  good  governess  for 
your  children,  at  the  very  smallest  remuneration,"  say  I. 

"Do  you  know  the  charges  that  unhappy  sister  of  mine  and 
her  family  have  put  me  to  already  1 "  says  the  Master,  turning  as 
red  as  his  hood. 

"  They  have  formed  the  frequent  subject  of  your  conversation," 
I  replied.     "  You  have  had  Bessy  as  a  governess " 

"  A  nursery  governess — she  has  learned  Latin  and  a  great  deal 
more,  since  she  has  been  in  my  house,"  cries  the  Master. 

"  A  nursery  governess  at  tlie  wages  of  a  housemaid,"  I  continued, 
as  bold  as  Corinthian  brass. 

"  Does  my  niece,  does  my — ahem  !— children's  governess,  com- 
plain of  her  treatment  in  my  College'?  "  cries  the  Master. 

"My  dear  Master,"  I  asked,  "you  don't  suppose  I  would  have 
listened  to  her  complaints,  or,  at  any  rate,  have  repeated  them, 
until  now ! " 

"  And  why  now,  Batchelor,  I  should  like  to  know  1 "  says  the 
Master,  pacing  up  and  down  liis  study  in  a  fume,  under  the 
portraits  of  Holy  Bonifacius,  Bishop  Budgeon,  and  all  the  defunct 
bigwigs  of  the  College.  "And  why  now,  Batchelor,  I  should  like 
to  know  1 "  says  he. 

"  Because — though  after  staying  with  you  for  three  years,  and 
having  improved  herself  greatly,  as  every  woman  must  in  your 
society,  my  dear  Master,  Miss  Prior  is  worth  at  least  fifty  guineas 
a  year  more  than  you  give  her — I  would  not  have  had  her  speak 
until  she  had  found  a  better  place." 

"You  mean  to  say  she  proposes  to  go  away?" 

"A  wealtliy  friend  of  mine,  who  was  a  member  of  our  College, 
by  the  way,  wauls  a  nursery  governess,  and  I  have  recommeuded 
Miss  Prior  to  him,  at  seventy  guineas  a  year.'" 


85  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

"  And  pray  who's  the  member  of  my  College  who  will  give  my 
niece  seventy  guineas  1 "  asked  the  Master  fiercely. 
"You  remember  Lovel,  the  gentleman-pensioner?" 
"  The   sugar-baking    man — the    man    who    took    you    out   of 
.1" 


"  One  good  turn  deserves  another,"  say  I  hastily.  "  I  have 
done  as  much  for  son;e  of  your  family,  Sargent !  " 

Tlie  red  Master,  who  had  been  rustling  up  and  down  his  study 
in  his  gown  and  bands,  stopped  in  his  walk  as  if  I  had  struck  him. 
He  looked  at  me.  He  turned  redder  than  ever.  He  drew  his 
hand  over  his  eyes.  "  Batchelor,"  says  he,  "  I  ask  your  pardon. 
It  was  I  who  forgot  myself — may  Heaven  forgive  me ! — forgot  how 
good  you  have  been  to  my  family,  to  my — ahem  ! — humble  family, 
and — and  how  devoutly  thankful  I  ought  to  be  for  the  protection 
which  they  have  found  in  you."  His  voice  quite  fell  as  lie  spoke : 
and  of  course  any  little  wrath  which  I  might  have  felt  was  dis- 
armed before  his  contrition.  We  parted  the  best  friends.  He  not 
only  shook  hands  with  me  at  the  study-door,  but  he  actually 
followed  me  to  the  hall-door,  and  shook  hands  at  his  lodge-porch, 
sub  Jove,  in  the  quadrangle.  Huckles,  the  tutor  (Highlow  Huckles 
we  used  to  call  him  in  our  time),  and  Botts  (Trumperian  professor), 
who  happened  to  be  passing  through  the  court  at  the  time,  stood 
aghast  as  they  witnessed  the  phenomenon. 

"I  say,  Batchelor,"  asks  Huckles,  "have  you  been  made  a 
marquis  by  any  chance  1 " 

"  Why  a  marquis,  Huckles  1 "  I  ask. 

"  Sargent  never  comes  to  his  lodge-door  with  any  man  under  a 
marquis,"  says  Huckles,  in  a  low  wliisper. 

"  Or  a  pretty  woman,"  says  that  Botts  (he  tvill  have  liis  joke). 
"  Batchelor,  my  elderly  Tiresias,  are  you  turned  into  a  lovely  young 
lady  par  hasard  .? " 

"  Get  along,  you  absurd  Trumperian  professor  ' "  say  I.  But 
the  circumstance  was  the  talk  not  only  in  Compotation  Room  that 
evening  over  our  wine,  but  of  the  whole  College.  And  further 
events  happened  which  made  each  man  look  at  his  neiglibour  with 
wonder.  For  that  whole  term  Sargent  did  not  ask  our  nobleman 
Lord  Sackville  (Lord  Wigmore's  son)  to  the  lodge.  (Lord  W.'s 
father,  you  know,  Duff,  was  baker  to  the  College.)  For  that 
whole  term  he  was  rude  but  twice  to  Perks,  tlie  junior  tutor,  and 
then  only  in  a  very  mild  way ;  and  what  is  more,  he  gave  his 
niece  a  present  of  a  gown,  of  his  blessing,  of  a  kiss,  and  a  high 
character  when  she  went  away ; — and  promised  to  put  one  of  her 
young  brothers  to  school — which  promise,  I  need  not  say,  he  fixith 
fully  kept :  for  he  has  ^ood  principles,  Sargent  has.     He  is  rude  • 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR        83 

he  is  ill  bred :  lie  is  bumptious  beyond  almost  any  man  I  ever 
knew :  he  is  spoiled  not  a  little  by  prosperity ; — but  he  is 
magnanimous:  he  can  own  that  lie  has  been  in  the  wrong:  and 
oil  me  !  what  a  quantity  of  Greek  he  knows  ! 

Although  my  late  friend  the  Captain  never  seemed  to  do  aught 
but  spend  the  family  money,  his  disreputable  presence  somehow 
acted  for  good  in  the  household.  "  My  dear  husband  kept  our 
family  together,"  Mrs.  Prior  said,  shaking  her  lean  head  under 
her  meagre  widow's  cap.  "Heaven  knows  how  I  shall  provide 
for  these  lambs  now  he  is  gone  ! "  Indeed,  it  was  not  until  after 
the  death  of  that  tipsy  sheplierd  that  the  wolves  of  the  law  came 
down  upon  the  lambs — myself  included,  who  have  passed  the  age 
of  lambhood  and  mint  sauce  a  long  time.  They  came  down 
upon  our  fold  in  Beak  Street,  I  say,  and  ravished  it.  What  was 
I  to  do  1  Could  I  leave  that  widow  and  children  in  their  distress  ? 
I  was  not  ignorant  of  misfortune,  and  knew  how  to  succour  the 
miserable.  Nay,  I  think  the  little  excitement  attendant  upon  the 
seizure  of  my  goods,  &c.,  the  insolent  vulgarity  of  the  low  persons 
in  possession — with  one  of  whom  I  was  very  near  coming  to  a 
personal  encounter — and  other  incidents  which  occurred  in  the 
bereft  household,  served  to  rouse  me,  and  dissipate  some  of  the 
languor  and  misery  inider  which  I  was  suffering  in  consequence  of 
Miss  Mulligan's  conduct  to  me.  I  know  I  took  the  late  Captain 
to  liis  final  abode.  My  good  friends  the  printers  of  the  Museum 
took  one  of  his  boys  into  their  counting-house.  A  blue  coat  and 
a  pair  of  yellow  stockings  were  procured  for  Augustus  ;  and  seeing 
tlie  Master's  children  walking  about  in  Boniface  gardens  with  a 
glum-looking  old  wretch  of  a  nurse,  I  bethought  me  of  proposing 
to  him  to  take  his  niece  Miss  Prior — and,  Heaven  be  good  to  me  ! 
never  said  one  word  to  her  uncle  about  Miss  Bellenden  and  the 
Academy.  I  daresay  I  drew  a  number  of  long  bows  about  her. 
I  managed  about  tlie  bad  grammar  pretty  well  by  lamenting  that 
Elizabeth's  poor  mother  had  been  forced  to  allow  the  girl  to  keep 
company  with  ill-educated  people :  and  added,  that  she  could  not 
fail  to  mend  her  English  in  the  house  of  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished scholars  in  Europe,  and  one  of  the  best-bred  women, 
I  did  say  so,  upon  my  word,  looking  that  half-bred,  stuck-up  Mrs. 
Sargent  gravely  in  the  face ;  and  I  humbly  trust,  if  that  bouncer 
has  been  registered  against  me,  the  Recording  Angel  will  be  pleased 
to  consider  that  the  motive  was  good,  though  the  statement  was 
nnjustifiable.  But  I  don't  think  it  was  the  compliment :  I  think 
it  was  the  temptation  of  getting  a  governess  for  next  to  nothing 
that  o])erated  upon  Madam  Sargent.  And  so  Bessy  went  to  her 
aunt,  partook  of  the  bread  of  dei)endence,  and  drank  of  the  cuji  of 


84  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

humiliation,  and  ate  the  pie  of  humility,  and  brought  up  her  odious 
little  cousins  to  the  best  of  her  small  power,  and  bowed  the  head 
of  hypocrisy  before  the  don  her  uncle,  and  the  pompous  little 
upstart  her  aunt.  She  the  best-bred  woman  in  England,  indeed ! 
She,  the  little  vain  skinflint ! 

Bessy's  mother  was  not  a  little  loth  to  part  with  the  fifty 
pounds  a  year  which  the  child  brought  home  from  the  Academy ; 
but  her  departure  thence  was  inevitable.  Some  quarrel  had  taken 
place  there,  about  which  the  girl  did  not  care  to  talk.  Some  rude- 
ness had  been  off"ered  to  Miss  Bellenden,  to  which  Miss  Prior  was 
determined  not  to  submit :  or  was  it  that  she  wanted  to  go  away 
from  the  scenes  of  her  own  misery,  and  to  try  and  forget  that 
Indian  captain  1  Come,  fellow-suff"erer  !  Come,  child  of  misfortune, 
come  liither !  Here  is  an  old  bachelor  who  will  weep  with  thee 
tear  for  tear ! 

I  protest  here  is  Miss  Prior  coming  into  the  room  at  last.  A 
pale  face,  a  tawny  head  of  hair  combed  back,  under  a  black  cap : 
a  pair  of  blue  spectacles,  as  I  live !  a  tight  mourning  dress, 
buttoned  up  to  her  white  throat ;  a  head  hung  meekly  down  :  such 
is  Miss  Prior,  She  takes  my  hand  when  I  offer  it.  She  drops  me 
a  demure  little  curtsey,  and  answers  my  many  questions  with 
humble  monosyllabic  replies.  She  appeals  constantly  to  Lady 
Baker  for  instruction,  or  for  confirmation  of  her  statements.  What ! 
liave  six  years  of  slavery  so  changed  the  frank  daring  young  girl 
whom  I  remember  in  Beak  Street !  She  is  taller  and  stouter  than 
she  was.  She  is  awkward  and  higli-shouldered,  but  surely  she  has 
a  very  fine  figure. 

"  Will  Miss  Cissy  ami  Master  Popham  have  their  teas  here  or 
in  the  schoolroom  ]  "  asks  Bedford,  the  butler,  of  his  master.  Miss 
Prior  looks  appealingly  to  Lady  Baker. 

"  In  the  sch "  Lady  Baker  is  beginning. 

"  Here — here  !  "  bawl  out  the  children,  "  Much  better  fun 
down  here :  and  you'll  send  us  out  some  fruit  and  things  from 
dinner,  papa  !  "  cries  Cissy. 

"  It's  time  to  dress  for  dinner,"  says  her  Ladyship. 

"  Has  the  first  bell  rung  1 "  asks  Lovel, 

"  Yes,  the  first  bell  has  rung,  and  grandmamma  must  go,  for  it 
always  takes  her  a  precious  long  time  to  dress  for  diimer ! "  cries 
Pop.  And  indeed,  on  looking  at  Lady  Baker,  the  connoisseur 
might  perceive  tliat  her  Ladyship  was  a  liighly  composite  person, 
whose  charms  required  very  nuich  care  and  arrangement.  Tliere 
are  some  cracked  old  houses  where  the  painters  and  plumbers  and 
l)uttyers  are  always  at  work. 

"Have  the  goodness  to  ring  the  bell!"  she  says,  in  a  majestic 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR        85 

mannei-,  to  Miss  Prior,  though  I  think  Lady  Baker  herself  was 
nearest, 

I  sprang  towards  the  hell  myself,  and  my  hand  meets  Elizabeth's 
there,  who  was  obeying  her  Ladyship's  summons,  and  who  retreats, 
making  me  the  demurest  curtsey.  At  the  summons,  enter  Bedford 
the  butler  (he  was  an  old  friend  of  mine  too)  and  young  Buttons, 
the  page  under  that  butler. 

Lady  Baker  points  to  a  heap  of  articles  on  a  table,  and  says  to 
Bedford  :  "If  you  please,  Bedford,  tell  my  man  to  give  those  things 
to  Pincott,  my  maid,  to  be  taken  to  my  roon)." 

"  Shall  not  I  take  them  up,  dear  Lady  Baker  1 "  says  Miss  Prior. 

But  Bedford,  looking  at  his  subordinate,  says  :  "  Thomas  !  tell 
Bulkeley,  lier  Ladyship's  man,  to  take  her  Ladyship's  things,  and 
give  them  to  her  Ladyship's  maid."  There  was  a  tone  of  sarcasm, 
even  of  jjarody,  in  Monsieur  Bedford's  voice ;  but  his  manner  was 
profoundly  grave  and  respectful.  Drawing  up  her  person,  and 
making  a  motion,  I  don't  know  whether  of  politeness  or  defiance, 
exit  Lady  Baker,  followed  by  page,  Ijearing  bandboxes,  shawls, 
paper  parcels,  parasols — I  know  not  what.  Dear  Popham  stands 
on  his  head  as  grandmamma  leaves  the  room.  "  Don't  be  vulgar  !  " 
cries  little  Cissy  (the  dear  child  is  always  acting  as  a  little  Mentor 
to  her  brother):  "  I  shall,  if  I  like,"  says  Pop  ;  and  he  makes  faces 
at  her. 

"  You  know  your  room.  Batch  1 "  asks  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  Mr.  Batchelor's  old  room — always  has  the  blue  room,"  says 
Bedford,  looking  very  kindly  at  me. 

"Give  us,"  cried  Lovel,  "a  bottle  of  that  Sau " 

" terne  Mr.  Batchelor  used  to  like.     Chtlteau  Yquem.     All 

right ! "  says  Mr.  Bedford.  "  How  will  you  have  the  turbot  done 
you  brought  down  1 — Dutch  sauce  1 — Make  lobster  into  salad  ?  JMr. 
Bonnington  likes  lobster-salad,"  says  Bedford.  Pop  is  winding  u]) 
the  butler's  back  at  this  time.  It  is  evident  Mr.  Bedford  is  a 
j)rivileged  person  in  the  family.  As  he  had  entered  it  on  my 
nomination  several  years  ago,  and  had  been  ever  since  the  faitliful 
valet,  butler,  and  major-domo  of  Lovel,  Bedford  and  I  were  always 
good  friends  when  we  met, 

"  By  the  way,  Bedford,  why  wasn't  tlie  barouche  sent  for  me  to 
the  bridge  1  "  cries  Lovel.  "I  had  to  M-alk  all  tlie  way  home,  with 
a  bat  and  stumps  for  Pop,  with  the  basket  offish,  and  that  bandbox 
with  my  Lady's " 

"  He— he  !  "  grins  Bedford. 

"  '  He — he  ! '  Confound  you,  why  do  you  stand  griiming  there  ? 
Why  didn't  I  have  the  carriage,  I  say  ? "  bawls  the  master  of  the 
house. 


86  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

"  You  know,  sir,"  says  Bedford.  "She  had  the  carriage." 
And  he  indicated  the  door  through  which  Lady  Baker  had  just 
retreated. 

"  Then  why  didn't  I  have  the  plmeton  1 "  asks  Bedford's  master. 

"Your  nia  and  Mr.  Bonnington  had  the  phaeton." 

"  And  why  shouhhi't  they,  pray  1  Mr.  Bonnington  is  lame : 
I'm  at  my  business  all  day.  I  should  like  to  know  why  they 
shouldn't  have  the  phaeton  1 "  says  Lovel,  appealing  to  me.  As 
we  had  been  sitting  talking  together  previous  to  Miss  Prior's 
appearance.  Lady  Baker  had  said  to  Lovel,  "Your  mother  and 
Mr.  Bonnington  are  coming  to  dinner  of  cotirse,  Frederick  ? "  and 
Lovel  had  said,  "  Of  course  they  are,"  with  a  peevish  bluster, 
whereof  I  now  began  to  un<lerstand  the  meaning.  The  fact  was, 
these  two  women  were  fighting  for  the  possession  of  this  child ; 
but  who  was  the  Solomon  to  say  which  should  have  him  1  Not  I. 
jVeiiiii.  I  put  my  oar  in  no  man's  boat.  Give  me  an  easy  life, 
my  dear  friends,  and  I'ow  me  gently  over. 

"You  had  better  go  and  dress,"  says  Bedford  sternly,  looking 
at  his  master;  "the  first  bell  has  rung  this  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Will  you  have  some  '34  1 " 

Lovel  startefl  up  ;  he  looked  at  the  clock.  "  You  are  all  ready, 
Batch,  I  see.  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay  some  time,  ain't  you  1 " 
And  he  disappeared  to  array  himself  in  his  sables  and  starch.  I 
was  thus  alone  with  Miss  Prior  and  her  young  charges,  who  re- 
sumed straightway  their  infantine  gambols  and  quarrels. 

"  My  dear  Bessy  ! "  I  cry,  holding  out  both  hands,  "  I  am 
heartily  glad  to " 

"Ne  m'appelez  que  de  mon  nom  paternel  devant  tout  ce  monde, 
s'il  vous  plait,  mon  cher  ami,  mon  bon  protecteur ! "  she  says, 
hastily,  in  very  good  French,  folding  her  hands  and  making  a 
curtsey. 

"  Oui,  oui,  oui !  Parlez-vous  Fran^ais  ?  J'aime,  tu  aimes,  il 
aime!"  cries  out  dear  Master  Popham.  "What  are  you  talking 
■ibout  ?  Here's  the  phaeton ! "  and  the  young  innocent  dashes 
V trough  the  open  window  on  to  the  lawn,  whither  he  is  followed  by 
his  sister,  and  where  we  see  the  carriage  containing  Mr„  and  Mrs. 
Bonnington  rolling  over  the  smooth  walk. 

Bessy  advances  towards  me,  and  gives  me  readily  enough  now 
the  hand  she  had  refused  anon. 

"  I  never  thought  you  would  have  refused  it,  Bessy,"  said  I. 

"  Refuse  it  to  the  best  friend  I  ever  had ! "  she  says,  pressing 
my  hand.  "  Ah,  dear  Mr.  Batchelor,  what  an  ungrateful  wrctcli  I 
should  be,  if  1  <lid  !  " 

"Lot  me  see  your  eyes      Why  do  you  wear  spectacles  1     You 


■i:i.;.  .ii.il,,    ,  1,1,..,,.  ,1,  ,•,;<>'' 1 

,4„,  ^r.-  iM"-   *  '* 


Alt  '?rp«f 


Bessy's  spectacles. 


MISS    PRIOR    IS    KEPT    AT    THE    DOOR        87 

never  wore  them  in  Beak  Street,"  I  say.  You  see  I  was  very  loud 
of  the  child.  She  had  wound  herself  around  me  in  a  thousand  fond 
ways.  Owing  to  a  certain  Person's  conduct  my  heart  may  be  a 
ruin — a  Persepolis,  sir — a  perfect  Tadnior.  But  what  then?  May 
not  a  traveller  rest  under  its  shattered  columns'?  May  not  an 
Arab  maid  repose  there  till  the  morning  dawns  and  the  caravan 
passes  on  1  Yes,  my  heart  is  a  Palmyra,  and  once  a  Queen  in- 
habited me  (0  Zenobia !  Zenobia !  to  think  thou  shoidd'st  have 
been  led  away  captive  by  an  O'D —  !).  Now,  I  am  alone,  alone 
in  the  solitary  wilderness.  Nevertheless,  if  a  stranger  comes  to  me 
I  have  a  spring  for  his  weary  feet,  I  will  give  him  the  shelter  of  my 
shade.  Rest  thy  cheek  awhile,  young  maiden,  on  my  marble — • 
then  go  thy  ways  and  leave  me. 

This  I  thought,  or  something  to  this  effect,  as,  in  reply  to  my 
remark,  "  Let  me  see  your  eyes,"  Bessy  took  off  her  spectacles,  and 
I  took  them  up  and  looked  at  her.  Why  didn't  I  say  to  her,  "  My 
dear  brave  Elizabeth  !  as  I  look  in  your  face,  I  see  you  have  had 
an  awful  deal  of  suffering.  Your  eyes  are  inscrutably  sad.  We 
who  are  initiated,  know  the  members  of  our  Community  of  Sorrow. 
We  have  both  been  wrecked  in  different  ships,  and  been  cast  on 
this  shore.  Let  us  go  hand-in-hand,  and  find  a  cave  and  a  shelter 
somewhere  together!"  I  say,  why  didn't  I  say  this  to  her?  She 
would  have  come,  I  feel  sure  she  would.  We  "would  have  been 
semi-attached  as  it  were.  We  would  have  locked  up  that  room  in 
either  heart  where  the  skeleton  was,  and  said  nothing  about  it,  and 
pulled  down  the  party  wall  and  taken  our  mild  tea  in  the  garden. 
I  live  in  Pump  Court  now.  It  would  have  been  better  than  this 
dingy  loneliness  and  a  snuffy  laundress  who  bullies  me.  But  for 
Bessy?     Well — well,  perhaps  better  for  her  too. 

I  remember  these  thoughts  rushing  through  my  mind  whilst  I 
held  the  spectacles.  What  a  number  of  other  things  too  !  I  re- 
member two  canaries  making  a  tremendous  concert  in  their  cage. 
I  remember  the  voices  of  the  two  children  quarrelling  on  the  lawn, 
the  sound  of  the  carriage  wheels  grinding  over  the  gravel ;  and  then 
(if  a  little  old  fannliar  cracked  voice  in  my  ear,  with  a  "La,  Mr. 
Batclielor ;  are  i/ou  here  1 "  And  a  sly  face  looks  up  at  me  from 
under  an  old  bonnet. 

"It  is  mamma,"  .says  Bessy. 

"  And  I'm  come  to  tea  with  Elizabeth  and  the  dear  children ; 
and  while  you  are  at  dinner,  dear  ]\Ir.  Batchelor,  thankful — thank- 
ful for  all  mercies  !  And  dear  nie  !  here  is  ]\Irs.  Bonnington,  I  do 
declare  !  Dear  madam,  how  well  you  look — not  twenty,  I  declare  ! 
And  dear  Mr.  Bnunington  !  Oh,  sir  !  let  me — let  nic,  I  must  ])ress 
your  hand.    What  a  sermon  last  Sunday!    All  Putney  was  in  tears!" 


88  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

And  the  little  woman,  flinging  out  her  lean  arms,  seizes  portly 
Mr.  Bennington's  fat  hand,  as  he  and  kind  Mrs.  Bonnington  enter 
at  the  open  casement.  The  little  woman  seems  inclined  to  do  the 
honours  of  the  house.  "  And  won't  you  go  upstairs,  and  put  on 
your  cap  ?  Dear  me,  what  a  lovely  ribbon !  How  blue  does 
become  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  I  always  say  so  to  Elizabeth,"  she 
cries,  peeping  into  a  little  packet  which  Mrs.  Bonnington  bears  in 
her  liand.  After  exchanging  friendly  words  and  greetings  with  me, 
that  lady  retires  to  put  the  lovely  cap  on,  followed  by  her  little 
jackal  of  an  aide-de-camp.  The  i)ortly  clergyman  surveys  his 
pleased  person  in  the  spacious  mirror.  "  Your  things  are  in  your 
old  room — like  to  go  in,  and  brush  up  a  bit  1 "  whispers  Bedford 
to  me.  I  am  obliged  to  go,  you  see,  though,  for  my  part,  I  had 
thought,  until  Bedford  spoke,  tliat  the  ride  on  the  top  of  the 
Putney  omnibus  had  left  me  without  any  need  of  brushing ;  having 
aired  my  clothes,  and  given  my  young  cheek  a  fresh  and  agreeable 
bloom. 

My  old  room,  as  Bedford  calls  it,  was  that  snug  apartment 
communicating  by  double  doors  with  tlie  drawing-room,  and  whence 
you  can  walk  on  to  tlie  lawn  out  of  the  windows. 

"  Here's  your  books,  here's  your  writing-paper,"  says  Bedford, 
leading  the  way  into  the  chamber  "  Does  sore  eyes  good  to  see 
2/ou  down  here  again,  sir  You  may  smoke  now.  Clarence  Baker 
smokes  when  he  comes.  Go  and  get  some  of  that  wine  you  like 
for  dinner."  And  the  good  fellow's  eyes  beam  kindness  uj)on  me 
as  he  nods  his  head,  and  departs  to  superintend  the  duties  of  his 
table.  Of  course  you  understand  that  this  Bedford  was  "*y  young 
printer's  boy  of  former  days.  What  a  queer  fellow  !  )  had  not 
only  been  kind  to  him,  but  he  was  grateful. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  WHICH  I  PLAY  THE  SPY 

THE  room  to  which  Bedford  conducted  me  I  hold  to  be  the 
very  pleasantest  cliamber  in  mII  the  mansion  of  Shrubhinds. 
To  lie  on  that  comfortable  cool  bachelor's  bed  there,  and  see 
the  birds  hopping  about  on  the  lawn ;  to  peep  out  of  the  French 
window  at  early  morning,  inhale  the  sweet  air,  mark  the  dewy 
bloom  on  the  grass,  listen  to  the  little  warblers  performing  their 
chorus,  step  fortii  in  your  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  pick  a  straw- 
berry from  the  bed,  or  an  apricot  in  its  season ;  blow  one,  two, 
three,  just  half-a-dozen  puffs  of  a  cigarette ;  hear  the  venerable 
towers  of  Putney  toll  the  hour  of  six  (three  hours  from  breakfast, 
by  consequence),  and  pop  back  into  bed  again  with  a  fav(jurite 
novel,  or  review,  to  set  you  off  (you  sec  1  am  not  malicious,  or  I 
could  easily  insert  here  the  name  of  some  twaddler  against  whom  I 
have  a  grudgekin) :  to  ])op  back  into  bed  again,  I  say,  with  a  book 
which  sets  you  off  into  that  dear  invaluable  second  sleep,  by  which 
health,  spirits,  appetite  are  so  prodigiously  improved  : — all  these  I 
hold  to  be  most  cheerful  and  harmless  pleasures,  and  have  partaken 
of  them  often  at  Shrublands  with  a  grateful  heart.  That  heart 
may  have  had  its  griefs,  but  is  yet  susceptible  pf  enjoyment  and 
consolation.  That  bosom  may  have  been  lacerated,  but  is  not 
therefore  and  henceforward  a  stranger  to  comfort.  After  a  certain 
attair  in  Dublin — nay,  very  soon  after,  three  months  after — I 
recollect  remarking  to  myself :  •'  Well,  thank  my  stars,  I  still  have 
a  relish  for  '34  claret."  Ouce  at  Shrublands  I  heard  steps  pacing 
overhead  at  night,  and  the  feeble  but  continued  wail  of  an  infant. 
I  wakened  from  my  sleep,  was  sulky,  but  turned  and  slept  again„ 
Biddlecombe  the  barrister,  I  knew,  was  the  occupant  of  the  upper 
chamber.  He  came  down  the  next  morning  looking  wretchedly 
yellow  about  the  cheeks,  and  livid  round  the  eyes.  His  teething 
infant  had  kept  him  on  the  march  all  night,  and  Mrs.  Biddlecombe, 
I  am  told,  scolds  him  frightfully  besides.  He  munched  a  shred  of 
toast,  and  was  off  by  the  omnibus  to  chambers.  I  chipped  a  second 
egg;  I  may  have  tried  one  or  two  other  nice  little  things  on  the 
table  (Strasbourg  pat^  I  know  I  never  cau  resist,  and  am  convinced 


90  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

it  is  perfectly  wholesome).  I  could  see  my  own  sweet  face  in  tlie 
mirror  opposite,  and  my  gills  were  as  rosy  as  any  broiled  salmon. 
"  Well — well ! "  I  thought  as  the  barrister  disappeared  on  the  roof 
of  the  coach,  "  he  has  domus  and  2}l(icens  tixor — but  is  slie  placens  ? 
Placetne  to  walk  about  all  night  with  a  roaring  baby?  Is  it 
pleasing  to  go  to  bed  after  a  long  hard  day's  work,  and  have  your 
wife  nagnagging  you  because  she  has  not  been  invited  to  the  Lady 
Chancelloress's  soiree,  or  what  not  ?  Suppose  the  Glorvina  whom 
you  loved  so  had  been  yours  1  Her  eyebrows  looked  as  if  they 
could  scowl,  her  eyes  as  if  they  could  flash  with  anger.  Eemember 
what  a  slap  she  gave  the  little  knife-boy  for  upsetting  the  butter 
boat  over  her  tabinet.  Suppose  par-vulus  aula,  a  little  Batchelor 
your  son,  who  had  the  toothache  all  night  in  your  bedroom?" 
These  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  my  mind  as  I  helped  myself 
to  the  comfortable  meal  before  me.  "  I  say,  what  a  lot  of  muffins 
you're  eating ! "  cried  innocent  Master  Lovel.  Now  the  married, 
the  wealthy,  the  prosperous  Biddlecombe  only  took  his  wretched 
scrap  of  dry  toast.  "  Aha  ! "  you  say,  "  this  man  is  consoling 
himself  after  his  misfortune."  0  clmrl !  and  do  you  grudge  me 
consolation  1  "Thank  you,  dear  Miss  Prior.  Another  cup,  and 
plenty  of  cream,  if  you  please."  Of  course,  Lady  Baker  was  not 
at  table  when  I  said,  "  Dear  Miss  Prior,"  at  breakfast.  Before  her 
Ladyship  I  was  ■,«  mum  as  a  mouse.  Elizabeth  found  occasion  to 
whisper  to  me  during  the  day  in  her  demure  way :  "  This  is  a  very 

rare  occasion.     Lady  B never  allows  me  to  breakfast  alone 

with  Mr.  Lovel,  but  has  taken  her  extra  nap,  I  suppose,  because 
you  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Biddlecombe  were  here." 

Now  it  may  be  that  one  of  the  double  doors  of  the  room  which 
I  inhabited  was  occasionally  open,  and  that  Mr.  Batchelor's  eyes 
and  ears  are  uncommonly  quick,  and  note  a  number  of  things  which 
less  observant  persons  would  never  regard  or  discover ;  but  out  of 
this  room,  which  I  occupied  fir  some  few  days,  now  and  subse- 
quently, I  looked  forth  as  from  a  little  ambush  upon  the  proceedings 
of  the  house,  and  got  a  queer  little  insight  into  tlie  history  and 
characters  of  the  personages  round  about  me.  The  two  grand- 
mothers of  Level's  children  were  domineering  over  that  easy  gentle- 
man, as  women — not  grandmothers  merely,  but  sisters,  wives, 
aunts,  daughters,  when  the  chance  is  given  them — will  domineer. 
Ah  !  Glorvina,  what  a  grey  mare  you  might  have  become  had  you 
chosen  Mr.  Batchelor  for  your  consort !  (But  this  I  only  remark 
with  a  parenthetic  sigh.)  The  two  children  liad  taken  each  the 
side  of  a  giandmamma,  and  whilst  Master  Pop  was  declared  by 
his  maternal  grandmotlier  to  be  a  Baker  all  over,  and  taught  to 
ilespise  sugar-baking  and  trade,  little  Cecilia  was  Mrs.  Bonnington'a 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  91 

favourito,  repeated  Watts's  hymns  -with  fervent  precocity  ;  decliued 
tliat  she  would  marry  none  but  a  clergyman  ;  preached  infantine 
sermons  to  her  brotlier  and  maid  about  worldliness ;  and  somewhat 
wearied  me,  if  tlie  truth  must  be  told,  by  the  intense  self-respect 
vith  which  she  regarded  her  own  virtues.  The  old  ladies  had  that 
love  for  eacli  other,  which  one  may  imagine  that  their  relative 
positions  would  engender.  Over  the  bleeding  and  helpless  bodies  of 
Lovel  and  his  worthy  and  kind  stepfotlier,   Mr.  Bennington,  they 

skirmished  and  fired  sliots  at  each  other.     Lady  B would  give 

hints  about  second  marriages,  and  second  families,  and  so  forth, 

which  of  course  made  Mrs.  Bonnington  wince.     Mrs.  B had 

the  better  of  Lady  Baker,  in  consequence  of  the  latter's  notorious 
pecuniary  irregularities,  ^he  had  never  had  recourse  to  her  son's 
purse,  she  could  thank  Heaven.  She  was  not  afraid  of  meeting 
any  tradesman  in  Putney  or  London  :  she  had  never  been  ordered 
out  of  the  house  in  the  late  Cecilia's  lifetime ;  she  could  go  to 
Boulogne  and  enjoy  the  fresh  air  there.  This  was  the  terrific 
wliip  she  had  over  Baker.  Lady  B ,  I  regret  to  say,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  failure  of  remittances,  had  been  locked  uj)  in  prison, 
just  at  a  time  when  she  was  in  a  state  of  violent  quarixd  with  her 
late  daughter,  and  good  Mr.  Bonnington  had  helped  her  out  of 
durance.  How  did  I  know  thisi  Bedford,  Lovel's  factotum,  told 
me :  and  how  the  old  ladies  were  fighting  like  two  cats. 

There  was  one  point  on  which  the  two  ladies  agreed.  A  very 
wealthy  widower,  young  still,  good-looking,  and  good-tempered,  we 
know  can  sometimes  find  a  dear  woman  to  console  his  loneliness, 
and  protect  his  motherless  children.  From  the  neighbouring  Heath, 
from  Wimbledon,  Roehampton,  Barnes,  Mortlake,  Richmond,  Esher, 
Walton,  Windsor,  nay,  Reading,  Bath,  Exeter,  and  Penzance  itself, 
or  from  any  other  quarter  of  Britain,  over  which  your  fancy  may 
please  to  travel,  families  would  have  come  ready  with  dear  young 
girls  to  take  charge  of  that  man's  future  hap])iness  ;  but  it  is  a  fact 
that  these  two  dragons  kept  all  women  oft"  from  their  ward.  An 
unmarried  woman,  with  decent  good  looks,  was  scarce  ever  allowed 
to  enter  Shrublands  gate.  If  such  an  one  appeared.  Level's  two 
mothers  sallied  out,  and  crunched  her  hapless  bones.  Once  or 
twice  he  dared  to  dine  with  his  neighbours,  but  the  ladies  led  him 
such  a  life  that  the  poor  creature  gave  up  the  practice,  and  faintly 
announced  his  preference  for  home.  "  My  dear  Batch,"  says  he, 
"  what  do  I  care  for  tlie  dinners  of  the  people  round  about  %  Has 
any  one  of  them  got  a  better  cook  or  better  wine  than  mine'? 
When  I  come  home  from  business,  it  is  an  intolerable  nuisance  to 
have  to  dress  and  go  out  seven  or  eight  miles  to  cold  entrees,  and 
loaded  claret,  and  sweet  port.     I  can't  stand  it,  sir.     I  won't  stand 


92  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

it "  (and  he  stamps  his  foot  in  a  resolute  manner).  "  Give  me  an 
easy  life,  a  wine-merchant  I  can  trust,  and  my  own  friends,  by  my 
own  fireside.  Shall  we  have  some  more  1  We  can  manage  another 
bottle  among  us  three,  Mr   Bonnington  1 " 

'*  Well,"  says  Mr.  Bonnington,  winking  at  the  ruby  goblet,  "  I 
am  sure  I  have  no  objection,  Frederick,  to  another  bo " 

"  Coffee  is  served,  sir,''  cries  Bedford,  entering. 

"  Well — well,  perhaps  we  have  had  enough,"  says  worthy 
Bonnington. 

"  We  have  had  enough ;  we  all  drink  too  much,"  says  Lovel 
briskly.      "  Come  in  to  coffee." 

We  go  to  the  drawing-room.  Fred  and  I,  and  the  two  ladies, 
sit  down  to  a  rubber,  whilst  Miss  Prior  plays  a  piece  of  Beethoven 
to  a  slight  warbling  accompaniment  from  Mr.  Bonnington's  hand- 
some nose,  who  has  fallen  asleep  over  the  newspaper.  During  our 
play,  Bessy  glides  out  of  the  room — a  grey  shadow.  Bonnington 
wakens  up  when  the  tray  is  brought  in.  Lady  Baker  likes  that 
good  old  custom  :  it  was  always  the  fashion  at  the  Castle,  and  she 
takes  a  good  glass  of  negus  too ;  and  so  do  we  all ;  and  the  con- 
versation is  pretty  merry,  and  Fred  Lovel  hopes  I  shall  sleep 
better  to-night,  and  is  very  facetious  about  poor  Biddlecombe,  and 
the  way  in  which  tliat  eminent  Q.C.  is  henpecked  by  his  wife. 

From  my  bachelor's  room,  then,  on  the  ground-floor;  or  from 
my  solitary  walks  in  the  garden,  whence  I  could  oversee  many 
things  in  the  house ;  or  from  Bedford's  communications  to  me, 
which  were  very  friendly,  curious,  and  unreserved ;  or  from  my  own 
observation,  which  I  promise  you  can  see  as  fiir  into  the  millstones 
of  life  as  most  folk's,  I  grew  to  find  the  mysteries  of  Shrublands  no 
longer  mysterious  to  me ;  and,  like  another  Diahle  Boiteux,  had 
the  roofs  of  a  pretty  number  of  tlie  Shrublands  rooms  taken  off 
for  me. 

For  instance,  on  that  very  first  day  of  my  stay,  whilst  the 
family  were  attiring  themselves  for  dinner,  I  chanced  to  find  two 
secret  cujjboards  of  the  house  unlocked,  and  the  contents  unveiled 
to  me.  Pinhorn,  the  children's  maid,  a  giddy  little  flirting  thing 
in  a  pink  ribbon,  brought  some  articles  of  the  toilette  into  my 
worship's  apartment,  and  as  she  retired  did  not  shut  the  door 
behind  her.  I  might  have  tliought  that  pert  little  head  had  never 
been  made  to  ache  by  any  care  ;  but  ah  !  black  cai-e  sits  behind  the 
horseman,  as  Horace  remarks,  and  not  only  behind  the  horseman, 
but  behind  the  footman ;  and  not  only  on  the  footman,  but  on  the 
buxom  shoulders  of  the  lady's-maid.  So  with  Pinhorn.  You  surely 
hive  remarked  respecting  domestic  servants  that  tliey  address  you 
in  a  tone  utterly  afiected  and  unnatural — adopting  when  they  are 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  93 

amongst  each  other,  voices  and  gestures  entirely  different  from  those 
which  their  employers  see  and  hear.  Now,  this  little  Pinhorn,  in 
her  occasional  intercourse  with  your  humble  servant,  had  a  brisk, 
quick,  fluttering  toss  of  the  head,  and  a  frisky  manner,  no  doubt 
capable  of  charming  some  persons.  As  for  me,  ancillary  allurements 
have,  I  own,  had  but  small  temptations.  If  Venus  brought  me  a 
bedroom  candle  and  a  jug  of  hot  water,  I  should  give  her  sixpence, 
and  no  more.  Having,  you  see,  given  my  all  to  one  worn — Psha  ! 
never  mind  that  old  story. — Well,  I  daresay  this  little  creature 
may  have  been  a  flirt,  but  I  took  no  more  notice  of  her  than  if 
she  had  been  a  coal-scuttle. 

Now,  suppose  she  was  a  flirt.  Suppose,  under  a  mask  of  levity, 
she  hid  a  profound  sorrow.  Do  you  suppose  she  was  the  first 
woman  who  ever  has  done  so  ?  Do  you  suppose  because  she  had 
fifteen  pounds  a  year,  her  tea,  sugar,  and  beer,  and  told  fibs  to  her 
masters  and  mistresses,  she  had  not  a  heart  1  She  went  out  of  the 
room,  absolutely  coaxing  and  leering  at  me  as  she  departed,  with  a 
great  counterpane  over  her  arm  ;  but  in  the  next  apartment  I  heard 
her  voice  quite  changed,  and  another  changed  voice  too — though  not 
so  much  altered — interrogating  her.  My  friend  Dick  Bedford's 
voice,  in  addressing  those  whom  Fortuhe  had  pleaf^ed  to  make  his 
superiors,  was  grutt"  and  brief  He  seemed  to  be  anxious  to  deliver 
himself  of  his  speech  to  you  as  quickly  as  possible ;  and  his  tone 
always  seemed  to  hint,  "There  —  there  is  my  message,  and  I  have 
delivered  it ;  but  you  know  perfectly  well  that  I  am  as  good  as 
you."  And  so  he  was,  and  so  I  always  admitted  :  so  even  the 
trembling,  believing,  flustering,  suspicious  Lady  Baker  herself  ad- 
mitted, when  she  came  into  communication  with  this  man.  I  have 
thought  of  this  little  Dick  as  of  Swift  at  Sheen  hard  by,  with  Sir 
William  Temple  ;  or  Spartacus  when  he  was  as  yet  the  servant  of 
tlie  fortunate  Roman  gentleman  who  owned  him.  Now  if  Dick  was 
intelligent,  obedient,  useful,  only  not  rebellious  "with  his  superiors, 
I  should  fancy  that  amongst  his  equals  he  was  by  no  means  pleasant 
company,  and  that  most  of  them  hated  him  for  his  an'ogance,  his 
honesty,  and  his  scorn  of  them  all. 

But  women  do  not  always  hate  a  n)an  for  scorning  and  despising 
them.  Women  do  not  re\olt  at  the  rudeness  and  ari'ogance  of  us 
their  natural  superiors  Women,  if  properly  trained,  (cn  e  down  to 
heel  at  the  master's  bidding,  and  lick  the  hand  that  lias  been  often 
raised  to  hit  them.  I  do  not  say  that  brave  little  Dick  Bedford 
ever  raised  an  actual  hand  to  this  poor  serving-girl,  but  his  tongue 
whipped  her,  his  behaviour  trampled  on  her,  and  she  cried,  and 
came  to  him  whenever  lie  lifted  a  finger.  Psha !  Don't  tell 
me.     If  you  want   a  quiet,   contented,   oi'derly  home,   and   things 


94  IJOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

comfortable  about  you,  that  is  the  way  you  must  manage  your 
women. 

Well,  Bedford  hapi:)ens  to  be  in  tlie  next  room.  It  is  the 
morning-room  at  Shrublands.  You  enter  the  dining-room  from  it, 
and  tliey  are  in  the  habit  of  laying  out  the  dessert  there,  before 
taking  it  in  for  dinner.  Bedford  is  laying  out  his  dessert  as  Pinhorn 
enters  from  my  chamber,  and  he  begins  upon  lier  with  a  sarcastio 
sort  of  grunt,  and  a  "  Ho  !  suppose  you've  been  making  up  to  B., 
have  you  1 " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bedford,  t/oh  know  very  well  who  it  is  I  cares  for !  " 
she  says,  witli  a  sigh. 

"  Bother  !  "  Mr.  B.  remarks. 

"  Well,  Richard,  tlien  !  "  (here  she  weeps). 

"  Leave  go  my  'and  ! — leave  go  my  a-hand,  I  say  ! "  (What 
could  she  have  been  doing  to  cause  this  exclamation  1) 

"  Oh,  Richard,  it's  not  your  'and  1  want — it's  your  ah-ah-art, 
Richard  !  "  . 

"  Mary  Pinhorn,"  exclaims  the  other,  "  what's  the  use  of  going 
on  with  this  game  1  You  know  we  couldn't  be  a-happy  together — 
you  know  your  ideers  ain't  no  good,  Mary=  It  ain't  your  foult.  / 
don't  blame  you  for  it,  my  dear.  Some  jicople  are  born  clever,  some 
are  born  tall :  I  ain't  tall." 

"  Oh,  you're  tall  enough  for  me,  Richard  !  " 

Here  Richard  again  found  occasion  to  cry  out :  "  Don't,  I  say  ! 
Suppose  Baker  was  to  come  in  and  find  you  squeezing  of  my  hand 
in  this  way  1  I  say,  some  people  are  born  with  big  brains.  Miss 
Pinhorn,  and  some  with  big  figures.  Look  at  that  ass,  BulKeley, 
Lady  B.'s  man  !  He  is  as  big  as  a  Lifegiiardsman,  and  he  has  uo 
more  education,  nor  no  more  ideas,  than  the  beef  he  feeds  on." 

"  La  !  Richard,  Avhatliever  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  Pooh  !  How  should  t/ou  know  what  I  mean  1  Lay  them 
books  straight.  Put  the  volumes  together,  stupid  !  and  the  papers, 
and  get  the  table  ready  for  nursery  tea,  and  don't  go  on  there 
mopping  your  eyes,  and  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  Mary  Pinhorn  !  " 

"  Oh,  your  heart  is  a  stone — a  stone — a  stone  ! "  cries  Mary,  in 
a  burst  of  tears.  "  And  I  wish  it  was  hung  round  my  neck,  and 
I  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  and — there's  tlie  hupstairs  bell ! " 
with  wliich  signal  I  suppose  Mary  disappeared,  for  I  only  heard  a 
sort  of  grunt  from  Mr.  Bedford ;  then  the  clatter  of  a  dish  or  two, 
the  wheeling  of  chairs  and  furniture,  and  then  came  a  brief  silence, 
which  lasted  imtil  the  entry  of  Dick's  su])or(linate,  Buttons,  who  laid 
the  table  for  the  children's  and  Miss  Prior's  tea. 

So  here  was  an  old  story  told  over  again.  Here  was  love  un- 
requited, and  a  little  jiassionate  heart  wounded  and  unhappy.     My 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  95 

poor  little  Mary  !  As  I  am  a  sinner,  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  when 
I  go  away,  and  not  a  couple  of  shillings,  as  my  wont  has  been. 
Five  shillings  will  not  console  thee  much,  but  they  will  console  thee 
a  little.  Thou  wilt  not  imagine  that  I  bribe  thee  with  any  ])rivy 
thought  of  evin  Away!  "  Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Gliick 
— ich  habe — geliebt !  " 

At  this  juncture,  I  suppose  Mrs.  Prior  must  have  entered  the 
apartment,  for  though  I  could  not  hear  her  noiseless  step,  her  little 
cracked  voice  came  pretty  clearly  to  me  with  a  "  Good  afternoon, 
Mr„  Bedford  !  Oh,  dear  me  !  what  a  .many — many  years  we  have 
been  acquainted  !  To  think  of  the  pretty  little  printer's  boy  who 
used  to  come  to  Mr„  Batchelor,  and  see  you  grown  such  a  fine 
man  ! " 

Bedford,  How?     I'm  only  five  foot  four. 

Mrs.  Prior.  But  such  a  fine  figure,  Bedford  !  You  are — now 
indeed  you  are  !  Well,  you  are  strong  and  I  am  weak.  You  are 
well,  and  I  am  weary  and  faint. 

Bedford.  The  tea's  a-conung  directly,  Mrs.  Prior. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Could  you  give  me  a  gliiss  of  water  first — and 
perhaps  a  little  sherry  in  it,  please.  Oh,  thank  you.  How  good 
it  is  !  How  it  revives  a  poor  old  wretch  !  —  and  your  cough, 
Bedford  1  How  is  your  cough  1  I  have  brought  you  some  lozenges 
for  it — some  of  Sir  Henry  Halford's  own  prescribing  for  my  dear 
husband,  and 

Bedford  {abruptly).  I  must  go — never  mind  tiie  cough  now, 
Mrs.  P. 

Mrs.  Prior,  What's  herel  almonds  and  raisins,  macaroons, 
preserved  apricots,  biscuits  for  dessert — and — la  bless  the  man  ! 
how  you  sta — artled  me  ! 

Bedford.  Don't  !  Mrs.  Prior :  I  beg  and  implore  of  you,  keep 
your  'ands  out  of  the  dessert.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  must  tell  the 
governor  if  this  game  goes  on. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Ah  !  Mr.  Bedford,  it  is  for  my  poor — poor  child 
at  home ;  the  doctor  recommended  her  apricots.  Ay,  indeed,  dear 
Bedford  ;  he  did,  for  her  poor  chest ! 

Bedford.  And  I'm  blest  if  you  haven't  been  at  the  sherry- 
bottle  again  !  Oh,  Mrs.  P.,  you  drive  me  wild — you  do.  I  can't 
see  Lovel  put  upon  in  this  way.  You  know  it's  only  last  week  T 
whopped  the  boy  for  stealing  the  sherry,  and  'twas  you  done  it. 

Mrs.  Prior  {passionately).  For  a  sick  child,  Bedford.  What 
won't  a  mother  do  for  her  sick  child  1 

Bedford.  Your  children's  always  sick.  You're  always  taking 
things  for  'em.  I  tell  you,  by  the  laws,  I  won't  and  mustn't  stand 
it.  Mrs.  P. 


96  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

Mrs.  Prior  (ivith  much  spirit).  Go  and  tell  your  master,  Bedford, 
Go  and  tell  tales  of  me,  sir.  Go  and  have  me  dismissed  out  of  this 
house.  Go  and  have  my  daughter  dismissed  out  of  this  house,  and 
her  poor  mother  brought  to  disgrace. 

Bedford.  Mrs.  Prior — Mrs.  Prior !  you  have  been  a-taking  the 
sherry.  A  glass  I  don't  mind :  but  you've  been  a-bringing  that 
bottle  again. 

Jlfi's.  Pi-ior  {whimper inrj).  It's  for  Charlotte,  Bedford  !  my  poor 
delicate  angel  of  a  Sliatty  !  she's  ordered  it,  indeed  she  is  ! 

Bedford.  Confound  your  Shatty  '  I  can't  stand  it,  I  mustn't, 
and  won't,  Mrs.  P. ! 

Here  a  noise  and  clatter  of  other  persons  arriving  interrupted 
the  conversation  between  Lovel's  major-domo  and  the  mother  of 
the  children's  governess,  and  I  presently  heard  Master  Pop's  voice 
saying,  "You're  going  to  tea  with  us,  Mrs.  Priori  " 

Mrs.  Prior.  Your  kind  dear  grandmammas  have  asked  me,  dear 
Master  Popham. 

Pop.  But  you'd  like  to  go  to  dinner  best,  wouldn't  you?  I 
daresay  you  have  doosid  bad  dinners  at  your  house.  Haven't  you, 
Mrs.  Prior? 

Cissy.  Don't  say  doosid.     It's  a  naughty  word,  Popham  ! 

Pojy,  I  ivill  say  doosid.  Doo-oo-oosid  !  There  !  And  I'll  say 
worse  words  too,  if  I  please,  ami  you  hold  your  tongue.  What's 
there  for  tea  ?  jam  for  tea  1  strawberries  for  tea  ?  muffins  for  tea  1 
That's  it :  strawberries  and  muffins  for  tea.  And  we'll  go  iu  to 
dessert  besides  :  that's  prime.     I  say.  Miss  Prior  ! 

Miss  Prior.  What  do  you  say,  Popham  1 

Pop.  Shouldn't  you  like  to  go  in  to  dessert? — there's  lots  of 
good  things  there, — and  have  wine?  Only  when  grandmamma 
tells  her  story  about — about  my  grandfather  and  King  George  the 
what-d'ye-call-'iin  ?     King  George  the  Fourth 

Cis.  Ascended  the  throne,  1820;  died  at  Windsor,  1830. 

Pop.  Bother  Windsor  !  Well,  when  she  tells  that  story,  T  can 
tell  you  that  ain't  very  good  fun. 

Cis.  And  it's  rude  of  you  to  speak  in  that  way  of  your  grand- 
mamma. Pop  ! 

Poj).  And  you'll  hold  your  tongue,  miss  !  And  I  shall  speak 
as  I  like.  And  I'm  a  man,  and  I  don't  want  any  of  your  stuff  and 
nonsense,     I  sny,  Mary,  give  us  the  marmalade  ! 

Cis.  You  have  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  boys  oughtn't  to  have 
so  much. 

Pop.  Boys  may  have  what  they  like.  Boys  can  eat  twice  as 
much  as  women.  Tliere,  I  don't  want  any  more.  Anybody  may 
have  the  rest. 


"where    THK    S[;fiAR    GOES." 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  97 

Mrs.  Prior.  AVliat  nice  marmalade  !     I  know  some  children, 

ray  dears,  wlio 

Miss  Prior  (iinploi-inf/ly).  Mamma,  I  beseech  you- 


Mrs,  Prior.  I  know  three  dear  children  who  very — very  seldom 
have  nice  marmalade  and  delicious  cake. 

Po2J.  I  know  whom  you  mean :  yoii  mean  Augustus,  and 
Frederick,  and  Fanny — your  children  1  Well,  tliey  shall  have 
marmalade  and  c;\'ke, 

Cis,  Oh  yes,  I  will  give  them  all  mine. 

Pojy.  {ivho  sjyeaks,  I  thttil;  as  if  his  mouth  was  f  till).  I  won't 
give  *em  mine :  but  they  can  have  another  pot,  you  know.  You 
have  always  got  a  basket  with  you ;  you  know  you  have,  Mrs. 
Prior.     You  had  it  the  day  you  took  the  cold  fowl. 

Mrs,  Prior.  For  the  poor  blind  black  man  !  Oh,  liow  thank- 
ful he  was  to  liis  dear  young  benefactors !  He  is  a  man  and  a 
brother,  and  to  help  him  was  most  kind  of  you,  dear  Master 
Popham  ! 

PoiJ    That  black  beggar  my  brother  ?     He  ain't  my  brother, 

Mrs.  Prior^  No,  dears,  you  have  both  the  most  lovely  com- 
plexions in  the  world. 

Pojy.  Bother  comjjlexions !  I  say,  Mary,  another  pot  of 
marmalade. 

Mary    I  don't  know,  Master  Pop 

Po}:),  I  ivill  have  it,  I  say.  If  you  don't  I'll  smash  everythinf(, 
I  will 

Cis.  Oh,  you  naughty  rude  boy  ! 

Po2^.  Hold  your  tongue,  stupid  !     I  will  have  it,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Prior  Do  humour  him,  Mary,  please.  And  I'm  sure  my 
dear  children  at  home  will  be  better  for  it. 

Pop.  There's  your  basket  Now  i)ut  this  cake  in,  and  this 
bit  of  butter,  and  this  sugar  on  the  top  of  the  butter.  Hurray  ! 
hurray  !  Oh,  what  jolly  fun  !  Here's  some  cake — no,  I  think  I'll 
keep  that ;  and,  ]\Irs.  Prior,  tell  Gus,  and  Fanny,  and  Fred  I  sent 
it  to  'em,  and  tliey  shall  never  want  for  anything  as  long  as 
Frederick  Popham  Baker  Lovel,  Estpiire,  can  give  it  them.  Did 
Gus  like  my  grey  greatcoat  that  I  didn't  want? 

Miss  Prior.  You  did  not  give  him  your  new  greatcoat? 

Pop,  It  was  beastly  ugly,  a7id  I  did  give  it  him  ;  and  I'll  give 
him  this  if  I  choose,  And  don't  you  speak  to  me  ',  I'm  going  to 
school,  and  I  ain't  going  to  have  no  governesses  soon. 

il/rs.  Prior.  Ah,  dear  child  !  what  a  nice  coat  it  is ;  and  how 
well  my  boy  looks  in  it ! 

Afiss  Prior,  Mother,  mother!     I  implore  you — mother 

Mr,  Lovel  enters.  So  the  children  at  high  tea !  How  4')'^  ^^' 
7 


98  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

Mrs.  Prior  ?  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  manage  that  little  matter 
for  your  second  boy,  Mrs.  Prior. 

Mrs.  Prior.  Heaven  bless  you,  —  bless  you,  my  dear  kind 
benefactor !  Don't  prevent  me,  Elizabeth  :  I  must  kiss  his  hand. 
There  ! 

And  here  the  second  bell  rings,  and  I  enter  the  morning-room, 
and  can  see  Mrs.  Prior's  great  basket  popped  cunningly  under  the 
table-cloth.  Her  basket"? — \\ev  porte-manteau,  her  2^orte-bouteille, 
her  2^orte-<ydteau,  her  2^oi'te-2)antalo)i,  her  2^orte-hUm  in  general. 
Thus  I  could  see  that  every  day  Mrs.  Prior  visited  Shrublands  she 
gleaned  greedily  of  the  harvest.  Well,  Boaz  was  rich,  and  tliis 
ruthless  Ruth  was  hungry  and  poor. 

At  the  welcome  summons  of  the  second  bell,  Mr,  and  Mrs. 
Bonnington  also  made  their  appearance ;  the  latter  in  the  new  cap 
which  Mrs.  Prior  had  admired,  and  which  slie  saluted  with  a  nod  of 
smiling  recognition  :  "  Dear  madam,  it  is  lovely — I  told  you  it  was," 
whispers  Mrs.  P.,  and  the  wearer  of  the  blue  ribbons  turned  her 
bonny  good-natured  face  towards  the  looking-glass,  and  I  hope  saw 
no  reason  to  doubt  Mrs.  Prior's  sincerity.  As  for  Bonnington,  I 
coulil  perceive  that  he  had  been  taking  a  little  nap  before  dinner, — 
a  practice  by  which  the  appetite  is  imi^roved,  I  think,  and  tlie 
intellect  prepared  for  the  bland  prandial  conversation, 

"  Have  the  children  been  quite  good  1 "  asks  papa  of  the 
governess. 

"  There  are  worse  children,  sir,"  says  Miss  Prior  meekly. 

"  Make  haste  and  have  your  dinner ;  we  are  coming  in  to 
dessert !  "  cries  Poji. 

"  You  would  not  have  us  go  to  dine  without  your  grandmother  ?  " 
papa  asks.  Dine  without  Lady  Baker,  indeed  !  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  him  go  to  dinner  without  Lady  Baker. 

Pending  her  Ladyshi])'s  arrival,  papa  and  Mr.  Bonnington  walk 
to  the  open  window,  and  gaze  on  the  lawn  and  tlie  towers  of  Putney 
rising  over  the  wall. 

"  Ah,  my  good  Mrs.  Prior,"  cries  Mrs.  Bonnington,  "  those  grand- 
children of  mine  are  sadly  spoiled." 

"  Not  by  1/ou,  dear  madam,"  says  Mrs.  Prior,  with  a  look  of 
commiseration.  "Your  dear  children  at  home  are,  I  am  sure, 
perfect  models  of  goodness.  Is  Master  Edward  well,  ma'am  1  and 
Master  Robert,  and  Master  Richard,  and  dear  funny  little  Master 
William?  Ah,  what  blessings  those  children  are  to  you!  If  a 
certain  wilful  little  nephew  of  theirs  took  after  them  !  " 

"  The  little  nauglity  wretch  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Boimington  ;  "  do  you 
know,  Prior,  my  grandson  Frederick — (I  don't  know  why  they  call 
him  Popham  in  this  house,  or  why  he  should  be  ashamed  of  his 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  99 

father's  name) — do  you  knoAv  tliat  Po])liam  spilt  the  ink  over  my 
dear  husband's  liunds,  which  he  kee.jjs  in  his  great  dictionary,  and 
fought  with  my  Richard,  who  is  three  years  older  than  Popham, 
and  actually  boat  his  own  uncle  !  " 

"Gracious  goodness!"  I  cried;  "you  don't  nieau  to  say, 
ma'am,  that  Poj)  lias  been  laying  violent  hands  upon  his  venerable 
relative  1 "  I  feel  ever  so  gentle  a  pull  at  my  coat.  Was  it  Miss 
Prior  who  warned  me  not  to  indidge  in  the  sarcastic  method  with 
good  Mrs.  Boiinington  ? 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  call  my  poor  child  a  venerable  relative," 
Mrs.  B.  remarks.  "  I  know  tiiat  Popham  was  very  rude  to  him  : 
and  then  Robert  came  to  his  brother,  and  that  graceless  little 
Popham  took  a  stick,  and  my  husband  came  out,  and  do  you  know 
Popham  Lovel  actually  kicked  Mr.  Bonnington  on  the  shins,  and 
butted  him  like  a  little  naughty  ram  ;  and  if  you  think  such  con- 
duct is  a  subject  for  ridicule — I  don'f,  Mr.  Batchclor." 

"  My  dear — dear  lady  !  "  I  cried,  seizing  her  liand  ;  for  she  was 
going  to  cry,  and  in  woman's  eye  the  unansweralde  tear  always  raises 
a  deuce  of  a  commotion  in  my  mind.  "  I  would  not  for  the  world 
say  a  word  that  should  willingly  vex  you  ;  and  as  for  Pojjham,  I 
give  you  my  honour,  I  think  nothing  would  do  that  child  so  much 
good  as  a  good  whij)])ing." 

"He  is  s])oile(l>  madam;  we  know  by  vhotit"  i^ays  Mrs.  Prior. 
"  Dear  Lady  Biker  i  how  tliat  red  does  become  your  Ladyship  ! " 
In  fact.  Lady  B.  sailed  in  at  this  juncture,  arrayed  in  ribbons  of 
scarlet ;  Avith  many  brooches,  bangles,  and  other  gimcracks  ornament- 
ing her  plenteous  person.  And  now  her  Ladyship  having  arrived, 
Bedford  announct>d  that  dinner  was  served,  and  Lovel  gave  hi.'? 
mother-in-law  an  arm,  whilst  I  offered  mine  to  Mrs.  Bonnington  to 
lead  her  to  the  adjoining  dining-room.  And  the  placable  kind  soul 
speedily  made  pcac^  with  me.  And  we  ate  and  drank  of  Lovefs 
best.  And  Lady  Baker  told  wa  her  celebrated  anecdote  of  George 
the  Fourth's  compliment  to  her  late  dear  husband,  Sir  Pt)i)l)am,  when 
his  ]\Iajesty  visited  Ireland.  Mrs.  Prior  and  her  l)asket  were  gone 
when  we  repaired  to  the  drawing-room  :  having  been  hunting  all 
day,  the  hungry  mother  had  returned  with  her  prey  to  her  wide- 
mouthed  birdikins.  Elizabeth  looked  very  pale  and  handsome, 
reading  at  her  lamp.  And  whist  and  the  little  tray  finished  the 
second  day  at  Shrul)lands. 

I  paced  the  moonlit  walk  alone  when  the  family  had  gone  to 
rest ;  and  smoked  my  cigar  under  the  trancpiil  stars.  I  liad  been 
some  thirty  hours  in  the  house,  and  what  a  (pieer  little  drama  was 
unfolding  itself  liefore  me !  What  struggles  and  i>assions  were 
going  on  here^what  certamina  and  inotus  animormiil     Here  was 


100  LOVEL   THE   WIDOWER 

Lovel,  this  willing  horse  ;  and  what  a  crowd  of  relations,  Avhat  a 
heap  of  luggage  had  the  honest  fellow  to  carry  !  How  that  little 
Mrs.  Pi-ior  was  working,  and  scheming,  and  tacking,  and  flatter- 
ing, and  fawning,  and  plundering,  to  be  sure  !  And  that  serene 
Elizabeth,  with  what  consummate  skill,  art,  and  prudence  had  she 
to  act,  to  keep  her  place  with  two  such  rivals  reigning  over  her ! 
And  Elizabeth  not  only  kept  her  place,  but  she  actually  was  liked 
by  those  two  women !  Why,  Elizabeth  Prior,  my  Avonder  and 
respect  for  thee  increase  with  every  hour  during  which  I  con- 
template thy  character !  How  is  it  that  you  live  with  those 
lionesses,  and  are  not  torn  to  pieces?  What  sops  of  flattery  do 
you  cast  to  them  to  appease  them  1  Perhaps  I  do  not  think  my 
Elizabeth  brings  up  her  two  children  very  well,  and,  indeed,  have 
seldom  become  acquainted  with  young  people  more  odious.  But 
is  the  fault  hers,  or  is  it  Fortune's  spite?  How,  with  these  two 
grandmothers  spoiling  the  children  alternately,  can  the  governess 
do  better  than  she  does?  How  has  she  managed  to  lull  their 
natural  jealousy?  I  will  work  out  that  intricate  problem,  that 
I  will,  ere  many  days  are  over.  And  there  are  other  mysteries 
which  I  perceive.  There  is  poor  Mary  breaking  her  heart  for  the 
butler.  That  butler,  why  does  he  connive  at  the  rogueries  of  Mrs. 
Prior  ?  Ha  !  herein  lies  a  mystery  too  ;  and  I  vow  I  will  penetrate 
it  ere  long.  So  saying,  I  fling  away  the  butt-end  of  the  fragrant 
companion  of  my  solitude,  and  enter  into  my  room  by  the  open 
French  window  just  as  Bedford  walks  in  at  the  door.  I  had  heard 
the  voice  of  that  worthy  domestic  warbling  a  grave  melody  from 
his  pantry  window  as  I  paced  the  lawn.  When  the  family  goes 
to  rest,  Bedford  passes  a  couple  of  hours  in  study  in  his  pantry, 
perusing  the  newspapers  and  the  new  works,  and  forming  his 
opinion  on  books  and  politics.  Indeed,  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  the  letters  in  the  Piifne;/  Herald  and  Mortlake  Monitor, 
signed  "A  Voice  from  the  Basement,"  were  Mr.  Bedford's  com- 
position. 

"  Come  to  see  all  safe  for  the  night,  sir,  and  the  windows  closed 
before  you  turn  in,"  Mr.  Dick  remarks.  "  Best  not  leave  'em  open 
even  if  you  are  asleep  inside — catch  cold — many  bad  people  about. 
Remember  Broudey  murder  ! — Enter  at  French  windows — you  cry 
out — cut  your  throat — and  there's  a  fine  paragraph  for  papers  next 
morning ! " 

"  What  a  good  voice  you  have,  Bedford  ! "  I  say ;  "  I  heard 
you  warbling  just  now — a  famous  bass,  on  my  word  !  " 

"  Always  fond  of  music — sing  when  I'm  cleaning  my  plate — 
learned  in  old  Beak  Street.  She  used  to  teach  me,"  and  he  points 
towards  the  upper  floors. 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  101 

"What  a  little  diap  you  were  then! — when  you  came  for  my 
proofs  for  the  Museum"  I  remark. 

"  I  ain't  a  very  big  one  now,  sir  ;  but  it  ain't  the  big  ones  that 
do  the  best  work,"  remarks  the  butler. 

"  I  remember  Miss  Prior  saying  that  you  were  as  old  as 
she  was. ' 

"  Hm  !  and  I  scarce  caine  up  to  her — eh — elbow."  (Bedford 
had  constantly  to  do  battle  with  the  aspirates.  He  conquei'cd 
them,  but  you  could  see  there  was  a  struggle.) 

"And  it  was  Miss  Prior  taught  you  to  singT'  I  say,  looking 
him  full  in  the  face. 

He  dropped  his  eyes — he  could  not  bear  my  scrutiny.  I  knew 
the  whole  stoi-y  now. 

"  When  Mrs.  Lovel  died  at  Naples,  Miss  Prior  brought  home 
the  children,  and  you  acted  as  courier  to  the  whole  party  1 " 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Bedford.  "We  had  the  carriage,  and  of  coui-se 
poor- Mrs.  L.  was  sent  home  by  sea,  and  I  brought  home  the  young 
ones,  and — and  the  rest  of  the  family.  I  could  say,  Avanti  ! 
avanti !  to  the  Italian  postillions,  and  ask  for  des  chcvaux  when  we 
crossed  the  Halps — the  Alps, — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"  And  you  used  to  see  the  party  to  their  rooms  at  the  inns,  and 
call  them  up  in  the  morning,  and  you  had  a  blunderbuss  in  the 
rumble  to  shoot  the  robbers  1 " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bedford. 

"And  it  was  a  pleasant  time'?" 

"  Yes,"  says  Bedford,  groaning  and  hanging  down  his  miserable 
head.      "  Oh  yes,  it  was  a  pleasant  time." 

He  turned  away  ;  he  stamped  his  foot ;  he  gave  a  sort  of  imi)re- 
cation  ;  he  pretended  to  look  at  some  books,  and  dust  them  with 
a  napkin  which  he  carried.  I  saw  the  matter  at  once.  "  Poor 
Dick  !  "  says  I. 

"  It's  the  old — old  story,"  says  Dick.  "  It's  you  and  the 
Hirish  girl  over  again,  sir.  I'm  only  a  servant,  I  know ;  but  I'm 
a .      Confound  it!"     And  here  he  stuck  his  fists  into  his  eyes. 

"  And  this  is  the  reason  you  allow  old  Mrs.  Prior  to  steal  the 
sherry  and  the  sugar  1 "  I  ask. 

"How  do  you  know  that? — you  remember  how  she  prigged  in 
Beak  Street  ? "  asks  Bedford  fiercely. 

"  I  overlieard  you  and  her  just  before  dinner,"  I  said. 

"  You  had  better  go  and  tell  Lovel — have  me  turned  out  of  the 
house.  That's  the  best  thing  that  can  be  done,"  cries  Bedford 
again  fiercely,  stamping  his  feet. 

"  It  is  always  my  custom  to  do  as  much  mischief  as  I  possibly 
can,  Dick  Bedford,"  I  say,  with  fine  irony. 


102  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

He  seizes  my  liand.  "  No,  you're  a  trump — everybody  knows 
that ;  beg  pardon,  sir  ;  but  you  see  I'm  so — so — dash  ! — miserable, 
that  I  hardly  know  whether  I'm  walking  on  my  head  or  my  heels." 

"  You  haven't  succeeded  in  touching  her  heart,  then,  my  poor 
Dick  ] "  I  said. 

Dick  shook  his  head.  "She  has  no  heart,"  he  said.  "If  she 
ever  had  any,  that  fellar  in  India  took  it  away  with  him.  She 
don't  care  for  anybody  alive.  She  likes  me  as  well  as  any  one.  I 
think  she  appreciates  me,  you  see,  sir ;  she  can't  'elp  it — I'm  blest 
if  she  can.  She  knows  I  am  a  better  man  than  most  of  the  chaps 
that  come  down  here, — I  am,  if  I  wasn't  a  servant.  If  I  were 
only  an  apothecary — like  that  grinning  jackass  who  comes  here  from 
Barnes  in  his  gig,  and  wants  to  marry  her — she'd  have  me.  She 
keeps  him  on,  and  encourages  him — she  can  do  that  cleverly  enough. 
And  the  old  dragon  fancies  she  is  fond  of  him.  Psha !  Why  am 
I  making  a  fool  of  myself? — I  am  only  a  servant.  Mary's  good 
enough  for  me  ;  she'll  have  me  fast  enough.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir  ;  I  am  making  a  fool  of  myself;  I  ain't  the  first,  sir.  Good 
night,  sir;  hope  you'll  sleep  well."  And  Dick  departs  to  his  ])antry 
and  his  private  cares,  and  I  think,  "  Here  is  another  victim  who  is 
writhing  under  the  merciless  arrows  of  the  universal  torturer." 

"  He  is  a  very  singular  person,"  Miss  Prior  remarked  to  me,  as, 
next  day,  I  happened  to  be  walking  on  Putney  Heath  by  her  side, 
while  her  young  charges  trotted  on  and  quarrelled  in  the  distance, 
"  I  wonder  where  the  world  will  stop  next,  dear  Mr.  Batchelor,  and 
how  far  the  march  of  intellect  will  proceed !  Any  one  so  free,  and 
easy,  and  cool,  as  this  Mr.  Bedford,  I  never  saw.  When  we  were 
abroad  with  poor  Mrs.  Lovel,  he  picked  up  French  and  Italian  in 
quite  a  surprising  way.  He  takes  books  down  from  the  library 
now  :  the  most  alistruse  works — works  that  /  couldn't  pretend  to 
read,  I'm  sure.  Mr.  Boiuiington  says  he  has  taught  himself  history, 
and  Horace  in  Latin,  and  algebra,  and  I  don't  know  what  besides. 
He  talked  to  the  servants  and  tradespeople  at  Naples  much  better 
than  /  could,  I  assure  you."  And  Elizabeth  tosses  up  her  head 
heavenwards,  as  if  she  would  ask  of  yonder  skies  how  such  a  man 
could  possibly  be  as  good  as  herself. 

She  stepped  along  the  Heath — slim,  stately,  healthy,  tall — her 
firm  neat  foot  treading  swiftly  over  the  grass.  She  wore  her  blue 
spectacles,  but  I  think  she  could  have  looked  at  the  sun  without 
the  glasses  and  without  wincing.  That  sun  was  playing  with  her 
tawny  wavy  ringlets,  and  scattering  gold-dust  over  them. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  said  I,  admiring  her,  "how  these  people 
give  themselves  airs,  and  try  to  imitate  their  betters ! " 

"  Most  extraordinary  !  "  says  Bessy.     She  had  not  one  particle 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  103 

of  humour  in  all  her  composition.  I  think  Dick  Bedford  avus 
right ;  and  she  had  no  heart.  Well,  she  had  famous  lungs,  health, 
appetite,  and  with  these  one  may  get  through  life  not  uncomfortably. 

"  You  and  Saint  Cecilia  got  on  pretty  well,  Bessy  1 "  I  ask. 

"  Saint  who  ? " 

"  The  late  Mrs.  L." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Lovel : — yes.  "What  an  odd  person  you  are  !  I  di<l 
not  understand  whom  you  meant,"  says  Elizabeth  the  downright. 

"  Not  a  good  temper,  I  should  think  !     She  and  Fred  fought  1 " 

"He  never  fought." 

"I  think  a  little  bird  has  told  me  that  she  was  not  averse  to 
the  admiration  of  our  sex  1 '' 

"I  don't  speak  ill  of  my  friends,  Mr.  Batclielor,"  replies 
Elizabeth  the  prudent. 

"You  must  have  difficult  work  with  the  two  old  ladies  at 
Shrublands  ? " 

Bessy  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "  A  little  management  is  necessary 
in  all  families,"  she  says.  ''  Tlie  ladies  are  naturally  a  little  jealous 
one  of  the  other ;  but  they  are  both  of  them  not  unkind  to  me  in 
the  main ;  and  I  have  to  bear  no  more  than  other  women  in  my 
situation.  It  was  not  all  pleasure  at  St.  Boniface,  Mr.  Batclielor, 
with  my  uncle  and  aunt.  I  suppose  all  governesses  have  their 
difficulties  !  and  I  nuist  get  over  mine  as  best  I  can,  and  be  thank- 
ful for  the  liberal  salary  which  your  kindness  procured  for  me,  and 
wiiich  enables  me  to  help  my  poor  mother  and  my  brothers  and 
sisters." 

"  I  suppose  you  give  all  your  money  to  her  ] " 

"  Nearly  all.  They  must  have  it ;  poor  mamma  has  so  many 
mouths  to  feed." 

"  And  notre  petit  cceur,  Bessy  1 "  I  ask,  looking  in  her  fresh 
face.     "  Have  we  replaced  the  Indian  officer  1 " 

Another  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  I  suppose  we  all  get  over 
those  follies,  Mr.  Batclielor.  I  remember  somebody  else  was  in  a 
sad  w\ay  too," — and  she  looks  askance  at  the  victim  of  Glorvina. 
"  J/y  folly  is  deatl  and  buried  long  ago.  I  have  to  w'ork  so  hard 
for  mamma,  and  my  brothers  and  sisters,  that  I  have  no  time  for 
such  nonsense." 

Here  a  gentleman  in  a  natty  gig,  Avith  a  high-trotting  horse, 
came  spanking  towards  us  over  the  common,  and  with  my  profound 
knowledge  of  hiunan  nature,  I  saw  at  once  that  the  servant  by  the 
driver's  side  was  a  little  doctor's  boy,  and  the  gentleman  himself 
was  a  neat  and  trim  general  practitioner. 

He  stared  at  me  grimly,  as  he  made  a  bow  to  Miss  Bessy.  I 
saw  jealousy  and  suspicion  in  his  asiject. 


104  LOVEL    THE  WIDOWER 

"  Tliank  you,  dear  Mr.  Drencher,"  says  Bessy,  "  for  your  kind- 
ness to  mainma  and  our  children.  You  are  going  to  call  at  Slirub- 
lands  ]  Lady  Baker  was  indisposed  this  morning.  She  says  when 
she  can't  have  Doctor  Piper,  there's  nobody  like  you."  And  this 
artful  one  smiles  blandly  on  Mr.  Drencher. 

"  I  have  got  the  workhouse,  and  a  case  at  Roehampton,  and 
I  sliall  be  at  Shrublands  about  two,  Miss  Prior,"  says  that  young 
Doctor,  whom  Bedford  had  called  a  grinning  jackass.  He  laid  an 
cagei  emphasis  on  the  tivo.  Go  to !  I  know  what  two  and  two 
inean  as  well  as  most  people,  Mr.  Drencher !  Glances  of  rage  he 
shot  at  me  from  out  his  gig.  The  serpents  of  that  miserable 
^sculapius  unwound  themselves  from  his  rod,  and  were  gnawing 
at  his  swollen  heart ! 

"  He  has  a  good  practice,  Mr.  Drencher  1 "  I  ask,  sly  rogue 
as  I  am, 

"  He  is  very  good  to  mamma  and  our  children.  His  practice 
with  them  does  not  profit  him  much,"  says  Bessy. 

"And  I  suppose  our  walk  will  be  over  before  two  o'clock?" 
remarks  that  slyboots  who  is  walking  with  Miss  Prior. 

"  I  hope  so.  Why,  it  is  our  dinner-time  •  and  this  walk  on  the 
Heath  does  make  one  so  hungry  ! "  cries  the  governess. 

"  Bessy  Prior,"  I  said,  "  it  is  my  belief  that  you  no  more  want 
spectacles  than  a  cat  in  the  twilight."  To  which  she  replied,  that 
I  was  such  a  strange  odd  man,  she  really  could  not  understand  me. 

We  were  back  at  Shrublands  at  two.  Of  course  we  must  not 
keep  the  children's  dinner  waiting :  and  of  course  Mr.  Drencher 
drove  up  at  five  minutes  past  two,  with  his  gig-horse  all  in  a  lather. 
I,  who  knew  the  secrets  of  the  house,  was  amused  to  see  the  furious 
glances  which  Bedford  darted  from  the  sideboard,  or  as  he  served 
the  Doctor  witli  cutlets.  Drencher,  for  his  part,  scowled  at  me. 
I,  for  my  part,  was  easy,  witty,  pleasant,  and  I  trust  profoundly 
wicked  and  malicious.  I  bragged  about  my  aristocratic  friends  to 
Lady  Baker.  I  trumped  her  old-world  stories  about  George  the 
Fourtli  at  Dublin  with  the  latest  dandified  intelligence  I  had  learned 
at  the  Club.  That  the  young  Doctor  should  l)e  dazzled  and  dis- 
gusted was,  I  own,  my  wish ;  and  I  enjoyed  his  rage  as  I  saw  him 
choking  with  jealousy  over  his  victuals. 

But  why  was  Lady  Baker  sulky  with  me  ?  How  came  it,  my 
foshionable  stories  had  no  effect  upon  that  polite  matron  ?  Yester- 
day at  dinner  she  had  been  gracious  enough  :  and  turning  her  back 
upon  those  poor  simple  Bonningtons,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  beau 
mon.de  at  all,  had  condescended  to  address  herself  specially  to  me 
several  times  with  an  "  I  need  not  tell  you,  Mr.  Batchelor,  that  the 
Duchess  of  Dorsetshire's  maiden  name  was  De  Bobus  ; "  or,  "  You 


I    PLAY    THE    SPY  105 

know  very  well  that  the  etiquette  at  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  balls,  at 
Dublin  Castle,  is  for  the  wives  of  baronets  to  " — &c.  &c. 

Now  whence,  I  say,  did  it  arise  that  Lady  Baker,  who  had  been 
kind  and  familiar  with  me  on  Sunday,  should  on  Monday  turn  me 
a  shoulder  as  cold  as  that  lamb  wliich  I  offered  to  carve  for  tlie 
family,  and  which  remained  from  yesterday's  quarter?  I  had 
tliought  of  staying  but  two  days  at  Shrublands.  I  generally  am 
bored  at  country-houses.  I  was  going  away  on  the  Monday  morn- 
ing, but  Lovel,  when  he  and  I  and  the  children  and  Miss  Prior 
breakfasted  together  before  he  went  to  business,  pressed  me  to  stay 
so  heartily  and  sincerely  th.ut  I  agreed,  gladly  enough,  to  remain. 
I  could  finish  a  scene  or  two  of  my  tragedy  at  my  leisure ;  besides, 
there  were  one  or  two  little  comedies  going  on  in  the  house  which 
inspired  me  with  no  little  curiosity. 

Lady  Baker  growled  at  me,  then,  during  lunch-time.  She 
addressed  herself  in  whisjiers  and  hints  to  Mr.  Drencher.  She  had 
in  her  own  man,  Bulkeley,  and  bullied  him.  She  desired  to  know 
whether  she  was  to  have  the  barouche  or  not ;  and  when  informed 
that  it  was  at  her  Ladyship's  service,  said  it  was  a  great  deal  too 
cold  for  the  opeji  carriage,  and  that  she  would  have  the  brougham. 
When  she  was  told  that  Mr.  and  IMrs.  Bonnington  had  impounded 
the  brougham,  she  said  slie  had  no  idea  of  people  taking  other 
people's  carriages :  and  when  Mr.  Bedford  remarked  that  her  Lady- 
ship had  her  choice  tliat  morning,  and  had  chosen  the  barouche,  she 
said,  "  I  didn't  speak  to  you,  sir ;  and  I  will  thank  you  not  to 
address  me  until  you  are  spoken  to  ! "  She  made  the  place  so  hot 
that  I  began  to  wish  I  had  quitted  it. 

"  And  pray,  Miss  Prior,  where  is  Captain  Baker  to  sleep,"  she 
asked,  "  now  that  the  ground-floor  room  is  engaged  1 " 

Miss  Prior  meekly  said,  "  Captain  Baker  would  have  the  pink 
room." 

"  The  room  on  my  landing-place,  without  double  doors  1  Im- 
possible! Clarence  is  always  smoking.  Clarence  will  fill  the  whole 
house  with  his  smoke.  He  shall  not  sleep  in  the  pink  room.  I  expected 
the  ground-floor  room  for  him,  which — a — this  gentleman  persists  in 
not  vacating."     And  the  dear  creature  looked  me  full  in  the  face. 

"  This  gentleman  smokes,  too,  and  is  so  comfortable  where  he  is, 
that  he  proposes  to  remain  there,"  I  say  with  a  bland  smile. 

"Haspic  of  plovers'  eggs,  sir,"  says  Bedford,  handing  a  dish 
over  my  back.  And  he  actually  gave  me  a  little  dig,  and  growled, 
"  Go  it— give  it  her ! " 

"  There  is  a  capital  inn  on  the  Heath,"  I  continue,  peeling  one 
of  my  o])al  favourites.  "  If  Ca])tain  Baker  must  smoke,  he  may 
have  a  room  there." 


106  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

"  Sir  !  iny  son  does  not  live  at  inns,"  cries  Lady  Baker. 

"Oil,  grandma!  don't  he,  though?  And  wasn't  there  a  row 
at  the  '  Star  and  Garter  ' ;  and  didn't  pa  pay  Uncle  Clarence's  bill 
there,  though  1 " 

"  Silence,  Popham  !  Little  hoys  should  be  seen  and  not  heard," 
says  Cissy.  "  Shouldn't  little  boys  be  seen  and  not  heard,  Miss 
Prior  ? " 

"They  shouldn't  insult  their  grandmothers.  0  my  Cecilia — 
my  Cecilia  !  "  cries  Lady  Baker,  lifting  her  hand. 

"  You  shan't  hit  me  !  I  say  you  shan't  hit  me  !  "  roars  Pop, 
starting  back,  and  beginning  to  square  at  his  enraged  ancestress. 
The  scene  was  growing  painful.  And  there  was  that  rascal  of  a 
Bedford  choking  with  suppressed  laughter  at  the  sideboard.  Bul- 
keley,  her  Ladysliip's  man,  stood  calm  as  fate ;  but  young  Buttons 
burst  out  in  a  guffaw ;  on  wliich,  I  assure  you,  Lady  Baker  looked 
as  savage  as  Lady  Macbeth. 

"  Am  I  to  be  insulted  by  my  daughter's  servants  1 "  cries  Lady 
Baker.      "  I  will  leave  the  house  this  instant." 

"At  what  hour  will  your  Ladyship  have  the  barouche?"  says 
Bedford,  with  perfect  gravity. 

If  Mr.   Drencher  had  wliipped   out  a  lancet  and   bled  Lady 

B ■  on  the  spot,  he  would  have  done  her  good.     I  shall  draw 

the  curtain  over  this  sad — this  humiliating  scene.  Drop,  litt'e 
curtain  !  on  this  absurd  little  act. 


CHAPTER    IV 

A    BLACK  SHEEP 

THE  being  for  whom  my  friend  Dick  Bedford  seemed  to  have 
a  special  contempt  and  aversion,  was  Mr.  Biilkeley,  the  tall 
footman  in  attendance  npon  Lovel's  dear  mother-in-law. 
One  of  tlie  causes  of  Bedfnrd's  wrath,  the  wortliy  fellow  explained 
to  me.  In  the  servants'  liall,  Bulkcley  was  in  tlie  liabit  of  speaking 
in  disrespectful  and  satirical  terms  of  liis  mistress,  enlarging  upon 
her  many  foibles,  and  describing  her  pecuniary  difficulties  to  the 
many  habitues  of  tliat  second  social  circle  at  Slirublands.  The 
hold  which  Mr.  Bulkeley  had  over  his  lady  lay  in  a  long  unsettled 
account  of  wages,  which  her  Ladysliip  was  finite  disinclined  to  dis- 
charge. Anil,  in  sj>ite  of  tliis  insolvency,  the  footman  must  have 
found  his  protit  in  the  i)lace,  for  he  continue<l  to  hold  it  from  year 
to  year,  and  to  fatten  on  his  earnings,  such  as  they  were.  ]\Iy 
Lady's  dignity  did  not  allow  her  to  travel  without  this  huge 
personage  in  her  train  ;  and  a  great  comfort  it  must  have  been  to 
her,  to  reflect  that  in  all  the  country -iiouses  which  she  visited  (and 
she  would  go  wherever  she  could  force  an  invitation),  her  attendant 
freely  explained  liiniself  regarding  lier  peculiarities,  and  made  his 
brother  servants  aware  of  liis  mistress's  embarrassed  condition.  And 
yet  the  woman,  whom  I  supjiose  no  soul  alive  respected  (unless, 
haply,  she  herself  had  a  iiankering  delusion  that  she  was  a  respect- 
able woman),  thought  that  her  ])osition  in  life  forbade  her  to  move 
abroad  without  a  maid,  and  this  hulking  encumbran(^e  in  plush  ; 
and  never  was  seen  anywhere,  in  watering-place,  country-house, 
hotel,  unless  she  was  so  attended. 

Between  Bedford  and  Bulkeley,  then,  there  was  feud  and 
mutual  hatred.  Bedford  chafed  the  big  man  by  constant  sneers 
and  sarcasms,  which  penetrated  the  other's  dull  hide,  and  caused 
him  frequently  to  assert  that  he  would  punch  Dick's  ugly  head  ofl". 
The  housekeeper  had  frequently  to  interjjose,  and  fling  her  matronly 
arms  between  these  men  of  war ;  and  perhaps  Bedford  was  forced  to 
be  still  at  times,  for  Bulkeley  was  nine  inches  taller  than  himself, 
and  was  perpetually  bragging  of  his  skill  and  feats  as  a  bruiser. 
This  sultan  may  also  have  wished  to  fling  his  pocket-handkerchief 


108  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

to  Miss  Mary  Piiihoi'ii,  who,  tliougli  she  loved  Bedford's  wit  and 
cleverness,  might  also  be  not  insensible  to  the  magnificent  chest, 
calves,  whiskers,  of  Mr.  Bulkeley.  On  this  delicate  subject,  how- 
ever, I  can't  speak.  The  men  hated  each  other.  You  have,  no 
doubt,  remarked  in  your  experience  of  life,  that  when  men  do  hate 
each  otlier,  about  a  woman,  or  some  other  cause,  the  real  reason  is 
never  assigned.  You  say,  "  The  conduct  of  such  and  such  a  man  to 
his  grandmother — his  behaviour  in  selling  that  horse  to  Benson — 
his  manner  of  brushing  his  hair  down  the  middle  " — or  what  you 
will,  "  makes  him  so  offensive  to  me  that  I  can't  endure  him."  His 
verses,  therefore,  are  mediocre ;  his  speeches  in  Parliament  are  ntter 
failures ;  his  practice  at  the  bar  is  dwindling  every  year ;  his  powers 
(always  small)  are  utterly  leaving  him,  and  he  is  repeating  his  con- 
founded jokes  until  they  quite  nauseate.  Why,  only  about  myself, 
and  within  these  three  days,  I  read  a  nice  little  article — written  in 
sorrow,  you  know,  not  in  anger— by  our  eminent  confrere  Wiggins, 
deploring  the  decay  of,  &c.  &c.  And  Wiggins's  little  article  whicli 
was  not  found  suitable  for  a  certain  Magazine  1 — Allons  done  !  The 
drunkard  says  the  pickled  salmon  gave  him  tlie  headache ;  the  man 
who  hates  us  gives  a  reason,  but  not  the  reason.  Bedford  was 
angry  with  Bulkeley  for  abusing  his  mistress  at  the  servants'  table  ? 
Yes.  But  for  what  else  besides  1  I  don't  care — nor  possibly  does 
your  worship,  the  exalted  reader,  for  these  low  vulgar  kitchen 
quarrels. 

Out  of  that  ground-floor  room,  then,  I  would  not  move  in  spite 
of  the  utmost  efforts  of  my  Lady  Baker's  broad  shoulder  to  push  me 
out ;  and  with  many  grins  tliat  evening,  Bedford  complimented  mo 
on  my  gallantry  in  routing  the  enemy  at  luncheon.  I  think  he  may 
possibly  have  told  his  master,  for  Lovel  looked  very  much  alarmed 
and  uneasy  when  we  greeted  each  other  on  his  return  from  the  City, 
but  became  more  (Composed  when  Lady  Baker  appeared  at  the 
second  dinner-bell,  without  a  trace  on  her  fine  countenance  of  that 
storm  which  had  caused  all  her  waves  to  heave  with  such  commo- 
tion at  noon.  How  finely  some  people,  by  the  way,  can  hang  up 
(juarrels — or  pop  them  into  a  drawer — as  they  do  their  work,  when 
dinner  is  announced,  and  take  them  out  again  at  a  convenient 
season !  Baker  was  mild,  gentle,  a  thought  sad  and  sentimental — 
tenderly  interested  about  her  dear  son  and  daughter  in  Ireland, 
whom  she  must  go  and  see — quite  easy  in  hand,  in  a  word,  and  to 
the  immense  relief  of  all  of  us.  She  kissed  Lovel  on  retiring,  and 
prayed  blessings  on  her  Frederick.  She  pointed  to  the  picture : 
nothing  could  be  more  melancholy  or  more  gracious. 

"  She  go  !  "  says  Mr.  Bedford  to  me  at  night — "  not  she.  She 
icnows  when  she's  well  off";  was  obliged  to  turn  out  of  Bakerstown 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  109 

before  slie  caiiie  here  :  that  brute  Bulkeley  told  me  so.  She's 
always  quarrelling  witli  her  son  and  his  wife.  Angels  don't  grow 
everywhere  as  tliey  do  at  Putney,  Mr.  B.  !  You  gave  it  her  well 
to-day  at  lunch,  you  did  though  !  "  During  my  stay  at  Slirublands, 
Mr.  Bedford  paid  me  a  regular  evening  visit  in  my  room,  set  tlie 
carte  du  pai/s  before  me,  and  in  his  curt  way  acquainted  me  Avith  the 
characters  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  and  the  incidents  occurring 
therein. 

Captain  Clarence  Baker  did  not  come  to  Slirublands  on  the  day 
when  liis  anxious  mother  wished  to  clear  out  my  nest  (and  expel  the 
amiable  bird  in  it)  for  her  son's  benefit.  I  believe  an  important 
fight',  which  was  to  come  off  in  tlie  Essex  Marshes,  and  which  was 
postponed  in  consequence  of  the  interposition  of  the  county 
magistrates,  was  the  occasion,  or  at  any  rate  the  pretext,  of  the 
Captain's  delay.  "  He  likes  seeing  figlits  better  than  going  to  'em, 
the  Captain  does,"  my  major-domo  remarked.  "  His  regiment  was 
ordered  to  India,  and  he  sold  out :  climate  don't  agree  Avith  his 
precious  health.  The  Captain  ain't  been  here  ever  so  long,  not 
since  poor  Mrs.  L.'s  time,  before  Miss  P.  came  here :  Captain 
Clarence  and  his  sister  had  a  tremendous  quarrel  together.  He  was 
up  to  all  sorts  of  pranks,  the  Cai)tain  was.  Not  a  good  lot,  by  any 
means,  I  should  say,  Mr.  Bati^helor."  And  here  Bedford  begins  to 
laugh.  "  Did  you  ever  read,  sir,  a  farce  called  '  Raising  the  Wind  *? ' 
There's  jilenty  of  Jeremy  Diddlers  now.  Captain  Jeremy  Diddlers 
and  Lady  Jeremy  Diddlers  too.  Have  you  such  a  thing  as  half-a- 
crown  about  yon  1  If  you  have,  don't  invest  it  in  some  folks' 
l)ockets — that's  all.  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  if  I  am  bothering  you 
with  talking." 

As  long  as  I  was  at  Shrublands,  and  ready  to  partake  of  break- 
fast with  my  kind  host  and  his  children  and  their  governess.  Lady 
Baker  had  her  own  breakfast  taken  to  her  room.  But  when  there 
were  no  visitors  in  the  house,  she  would  come  groaning  out  of  her 
bedroom  to  be  present  at  the  morning  meal ;  and  not  uncommonly 
would  give  the  little  company  anecdotes  of  the  departed  saint,  under 
wliose  invocation,  as  it  were,  we  were  assembled,  and  whose  sinii)cr- 
ing  effigy  looked  down  upon  us,  over  her  harp,  and  from  the  wall. 
The  eyes  of  the  })ortrait  followed  you  about,  as  portraits'  eves  so 
])ainted  will ;  and  those  glances,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  still  domineered 
over  Lovel,  and  made  him  quail  as  they  had  done  in  life.  Yonder, 
in  the  corner,  was  Cecilia's  har]),  with  its  leatliern  cover.  I  likened 
the  skin  to  that  drum  whicli  the  dying  Zisca  ordered  i-hould  be 
made  out  of  liis  hide,  to  be  beaten  before  the  liosts  of  his  iieo])le  and 
inspire  terror.  Vous  conrevez,  I  did  not  say  to  Lovel  at  breakfast, 
us  I  sat  before  the  gliostly  musical  instrument,  "  My  dear  fellcv 


no  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

that  skin  of  Cardovan  leathei-  belonging  to  your  defunct  Cecilia's 
harp  is  like  the  hide  wliich,"  &o.  ;  but  I  (confess,  at  first,  I  used  to 
have  a  sort  of  crawly  sensation,  as  of  a  sickly  genteel  ghost  flitting 
about  the  place,  in  an  exceedingly  peevish  humour,  trying  to  scold 
and  command,  and  finding  her  defunct  voice  couldn't  be  heard — - 
trying  to  re-illumine  her  extinguished  leers  and  faded  smiles  and 
ogles,  and  finding  no  one  admired  or  took  note.  In  the  grey  of  the 
gloaming,  in  the  twilight  corner  where  stands  the  shrouded  com- 
l)anion  of  song — what  is  that  white  figure  flickering  round  tlie  silent 
harp  %  Once,  as  we  were  assembletl  in  tlie  room  at  afternoon  tea, 
a  bird,  entering  at  the  open  window,  perched  on  the  instrument. 
Popham  dashed  at  it.  Lovel  was  deep  in  conversation  upon  the 
wine  duties  with  a  Member  of  Parliament  he  liad  brought  down 
to  dinner.  Lady  Baker,  Avho  was,  if  I  may  use  the  expression, 
"jawing,"  as  usual,  and  teUing  one  of  her  tremendous  stories  about 
tlie  Lord  Lieutenant  to  Mr.  Boimington,  took  no  note  of  the  incident. 
Elizabeth  did  not  seem  to  remark  it :  what  was  a  bird  on  a  harp 
to  her,  but  a  sparrow  perched  on  a  bit  of  leather-casing !  All  the 
ghosts  in  Putney  churchyard  might  rattle  all  their  bones,  and  would 
not  frigliten  that  stout  spirit ! 

I  was  amused  at  a  precaution  which  Bedford  took,  and  some- 
what alarmed  at  the  distrust  towards  Lady  Baker  which  he  exhibited, 
when,  one  day  on  my  return  from  town — whither  I  had  made  an 
excursion  of  four  or  five  hours — I  found  my  bedroom  door  locked, 
and  Dick  arrived  with  the  key.  "  He's  wrote  to  say  he's  coming 
this  evening,  and  if  he  had  come  when  you  was  away.  Lady  B.  was 
capable  of  turning  your  tilings  out,  and  putting  his  in,  and  taking 
her  oath  she  beheved  you  was  going  to  leave.  The  long-bows 
Lady  B.  do  pull  are  perfectly  awful,  Mr.  B.  !  So  it  was  long-bow 
to  long-bow,  Mr.  Batchelor ;  and  I  said  you  had  took  the  key  in 
your  pocket,  not  wishing  to  have  your  papers  disturbed.  She  tried 
the  lawn  window,  but  I  had  bolted  that,  and  the  Captain  will  have 
the  pink  room,  after  all,  and  must  smoke  up  the  chimney.  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  him,  or  you,  or  any  one  do  it  in  poor  Mrs.  L.'s 
time — I  just  should." 

During  my  visit  to  London,  I  had  chanced  to  meet  my  friend 
Captain  Fitzb — die,  who  belongs  to  a  dozen  Clubs,  and  knows 
something  of  every  man  in  London.  "  Know  anything  of  Clarence 
Baker  ?  Of  course  I  do,"  says  Fitz ;  "  and  if  you  want  any  ren- 
seignement,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that 
a  blacker  little  sheep  does  not  trot  the  London  pave.  Wherever 
that  ingenious  officer's  name  is  spoken — at  Tattersall's,  at  his  Clubs, 
in  his  late  regiments,  in  men's  society,  in  ladies'  society,  in  that 
expanding  and  most  agreeable  circle  which  you  may  call  no  society 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  111 

at  all — a  chorus  of  maledictions  rises  up  at  the  mention  of  Baker. 
Know  anything  of  Clarence  Baker?  My  dear  fellow,  enough  ta 
make  your  hair  turn  white,  unless  (as  I  sometimes  fondly  imagine) 
nature  has  already  performed  that  process,  when  of  course  I  can't 
pretend  to  act  upon  mere  hair-dye."  (The  whiskers  of  the  individual 
who  addressed  me,  innocent,  stared  me  in  the  face  as  he  spoke,  and 
were  dyed  of  the  most  unblushing  purjile.)  "Clarence  Baker,  sir, 
is  a  young  man  who  would  have  been  invaluable  in  Sparta  as  a 
warning  against  drunkenness  and  an  exemplar  of  it.  He  has  helped 
the  regimental  surgeon  to  some  most  interesting  experiments  in 
delirium  tremens.  He  is  known,  and  not  in  the  least  trusted,  in 
every  billiard-room  in  Brighton,  Canterbury,  York,  Sheffield — on 
every  pavement  which  has  rung  with  the  clink  of  dragoon  boot-heels. 
By  a  wise  system  of  revoking  at  whist  he  has  lost  games  which  have 
caused  not  only  his  partners,  but  his  opi)onents  and  tlie  whole  Club, 
to  admire  him  and  to  distrust  him  :  long  before  and  since  lie  was 
of  age,  he  has  Avritten  his  eminent  name  to  bills  which  have  been 
dishonoured,  and  has  nobly  pleaded  his  minority  as  a  reason  for 
declining  to  pay.  From  the  garrison  towns  where  he  has  been 
quartered,  he  has  carried  away  not  only  the  hearts  of  the  milliners, 
but  their  gloves,  haberdashery,  and  perfumery.  He  has  had  con- 
troversies with  Cornet  Green  regarding  horse  traiisactions ;  disputed 
turf  accounts  with  Lieutenant  Brown  ;  and  betting  and  backgammon 
differences  with  Cajitain  Black.  From  all  I  have  heard  he  is  the 
worthy  son  of  his  admirable  mother.  And  I  bet  you  even  on  the 
four  events,  if  you  stay  three  days  in  a  country-house  with  him — 
which  appears  to  be  yom-  present  happy  idea — that  he  will  quarrel 
with  you,  insult  you  and  ajwlogise  ;  that  he  will  intoxicate  himself 
more  than  once ;  that  he  will  offer  to  i)lay  cards  with  you,  and  not 
pay  on  losing  (if  he  wins,  I  perhaps  need  not  state  what  his  conduct 
will  be) ;  and  that  he  will  try  to  borrow  money  from  yon,  and  most 
likely  from  your  servant,  before  he  goes  away."  So  saying,  the 
sententious  Fitz  strutted  up  the  steps  of  one  of  his  many  club- 
haunts  in  Pall  Mall,  and  left  me  forcAvai-ned,  and  I  trust  forearmed, 
against  Captain  Clarence  and  all  his  works. 

The  adversary,  when  at  length  I  came  in  sight  of  him,  did  not 
seem  very  formidable.  I  beheld  a  weakly  little  man  with  Cliinese 
eyes,  and  pretty  little  feet  and  hands,  whose  pallid  countenance 
told  of  Finishes  and  Casinos.  His  little  chest  and  fingers  were 
decorated  with  many  jewels.  A  perfume  of  tobacco  hung  round 
him.  His  little  moustache  was  twisted  with  an  elaborate  gummy 
curl.  I  perceived  that  the  little  hand  which  twirled  the  moustache 
shook  woefully  :  and  from  the  little  chest  there  came  a  cough  sur- 
prisingly loud  and  dismal. 


112  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

He  AViis  lying  on  a  sofa  as  I  entered,  and  the  children  of  the 
house  were  playing  round  him.  "  If  you  are  our  uncle,  why  didn't 
you  come  to  see  us  oftener  1 "  asks  Popham. 

"  How  should  I  know  that  you  were  such  uncommonly  nice 
children?"  asked  tlie  Captain. 

"  We're  not  nice  to  you,"  says  Popham.  "  Why  do  you  cough 
so  ?     Mamma  used  to  cough.     And  why  does  your  hand  shake  so  1 " 

"  My  hand  sliakes  because  I  am  ill :  and  I  cough  because  I'm 
ill,     Your  mother  died  of  it,  and  I  daresay  I  shall  too." 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  good,  and  rej^ent  before  you  die,  uncle,  and  I 
will  lend  you  some  nice  books,"  says  Cecilia. 

"Oh,  bother  books  !"  cries  Pop. 

"  And  I  hope  yo^Cll  be  good,  Popham,"  and  "  You  hold  your 
tongue,  miss,"  and  "  I  shall,"  and  "  I  shan't,"  and  "  You're  anotlier," 
and  "I'll  tell  Miss  Prior,"— "  Go  and  tell,  telltale,"— "  Boo  "— 
"  Boo  " — "  Boo  " — Boo  " — and  I  don't  know  wliat  more  exclama- 
tions came  tumultuously  and  rapidly  from  these  dear  children,  iis 
their  uncle  lay  before  them,  a  handkercliief  to  liis  mouth,  his  little 
feet  higli  raised  on  the  sofa  cushions. 

Captain  Baker  turned  a  little  eye  towards  me,  as  I  entered 
the  room,  but  did  not  change  his  easy  and  elegant  ])osture.  When 
I  came  near  to  the  sofa  where  he  reposed,  he  was  good  enough  t( 
call  out  — 

"  Glass  of  sherry  !  " 

"  It's  Mr.  Batchelor ;  it  isn't  Bedford,  uncle,"  says  Cissy. 

"  Mr,  Batchelor  ain't  got  any  sherry  in  his  pocket :  have  you. 
Mr.  Batchelor  1  You  ain't  like  old  Mrs,  Prior,  always  pocketing 
tilings,  are  you  1 "  cries  Pop,  and  falls  a-laughing  at  the  ludicrous 
idea  of  my  being  mistaken  for  Bedford. 

"Beg  your  pardon.  How  should  I  know,  you  know?"  drawls 
tlie  invalid  on  the  sofa.     "  Everybody's  the  same  now,  you  see." 

"  Sir  !  "  say  I,  and  "  sir  "  was  all  I  could  say.  The  fact  is,  I 
could  have  replied  with  something  remarkably  neat  and  cutting, 
which  would  have  transfixed  the  languid  little  jackanapes  who 
dared  to  mistake  me  for  a  footman  ;  but,  you  see,  I  only  thought 
of  my  repartee  some  eight  hours  afterwards  when  I  was  lying  in 
bed,  and  I  am  sorry  to  own  that  a  great  number  of  my  best  homnots 
have  been  made  in  that  way.  So,  as  I  had  not  the  pungent  remark 
ready  when  wanted,  I  can't  say  I  said  it  to  Captain  Baker,  but  I 
daresay  I  turned  very  red,  and  said  "  Sir  ! "  and — and  in  fact  that 
was  all. 

"  You  were  goin'  to  say  sometliin'  ? "  asked  the  Captain  affably. 

"  You  know  my  friend  Mr.  Fitzboodle,  I  believe  1 "  said  I ;  the 
fact  is,  1  really  did  not  know  what  to  say. 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  113 

"Some  mistake — think  not." 

"  He  is  a  member  of  tlie  '  Flag  Club,' "  I  remarked,  looking  my 
young  fellow  hard  in  the  face. 

"  I  ain't.  There's  a  set  of  cads  in  that  Club  that  will  say 
anything." 

"  You  may  not  know  him,  sir,  but  he  seemed  to  know  you  very 
well.  Are  we  to  have  any  tea,  children  ? "  I  say,  flinging  myself 
down  on  an  easy-chair,  taking  up  a  magazine,  and  adopting  an  easy 
attitude,  though  I  daresay  my  face  was  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock's, 
and  I  was  boiling  over  with  rage. 

As  we  had  a  very  good  breakfast  and  a  profuse  luncheon  at 
Shrublands,  of  course  we  could  not  support  nature  till  dinner-time 
without  a  five-o'clock  tea ;  and  this  was  the  meal  for  which  I 
pretended  to  ask.  Bedford,  with  iiis  silver  kettle,  and  his  buttony 
satellite,  presently  brought  in  this  refection,  and  of  course  the 
children  bawled  out  to  him — 

"  Bedford— Bedford  !     Uncle  mistook  Mr.  Batchelor  for  you." 

"  I  could  not  be  mistaken  for  a  more  honest  man.  Pop,"  said  I. 
And  the  bearer  of  the  tea-urn  gave  me  a  look  of  gratitude  and 
kindness  which,  I  own,  went  far  to  restore  my  ruffled  equanimity. 

"Since  you  are  the  butler,  will  you  get  me  a -glass  of  sherry 
and  a  biscuit  ?  "  says  the  Captain.  And  Bedford  retiring,  returned 
presently  with  the  wine. 

The  young  gentleman's  hand  shook  so,  that  in  order  to  drink 
his  wine,  he  had  to  siu'prise  it,  as  it  were,  and  seize  it  with  his 
mouth,  when  a  shake  brought  the  glass  near  his  lips.  He  drained 
the  wine  and  held  out  his  hand  for  another  glass.  The  hand  was 
steadier  now. 

"  You  the  man  who  was  here  before  ? "  asks  the  Captain. 

"  Six  years  ago,  when  you  were  here,  sir,"  says  the  butler. 

"  What !  I  ain't  changed,  I  suppose  1 " 

"  Yes,  you  are,  sir." 

"  Then,  how  the  dooce  do  you  remember  me  1 " 

"  You  forgot  to  pay  me  some  money  you  borrowed  of  me,  one 
pound  five,  sir,"  says  Bedford,  whose  eyes  slyly  turned  in  my 
direction. 

And  here,  according  to  her  wont  at  this  meal,  the  dark-robed 
Miss  Prior  entered  the  room.  She  was  coming  forward  with  her 
ordinarily  erect  attitude  and  firm  step,  but  j)aused  in  her  walk  an 
instant,  and  when  slie  came  to  us,  I  thought,  looked  remarkably 
pale.  She  made  a  slight  curtsey,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that 
Captain  Baker  rose  up  from  his  sofa  for  a  moment  when  she 
appeared.  She  then  sat  down,  with  her  back  towards  liim,  turning 
towards  herself  the  table  and  its  tea  apparatus. 


114  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

At  this  board  my  Lady  Baker  fomid  us  assembled  wlien  she 
returned  from  her  afternoon  drive.  She  flew  to  her  darling  repro- 
bate of  a  son.  She  took  his  hand,  she  smoothed  back  his  hair  from 
his  damp  forehead.  "My  darling  child,"  cries  this  fond  mother, 
"  what  a  pulse  you  have  got !  " 

"  I  suppose,  because  I've  been  drinking,"  says  the  prodigal. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  out  driving  with  mel  The  afternoon 
was  lovely  ! " 

"  To  pay  visits  at  Richmond  1  Not  as  I  knows  on,  ma'am," 
says  the  invalid.  "  Conversation  with  elderly  ladies  about  poodles, 
Bible  societies,  that  kind  of  thing?  It  must  be  a  doosid  lovely 
afternoon  that  would  make  me  like  that  sort  of  game."  And 
here  comes  a  fit  of  coughing,  over  which  mamma  ejaculates  her 
sympathy. 

"Kick — kick — killin'  myself!"  gasps  out  the  Captain;  "know 
I  am.  No  man  can  lead  my  life,  and  stand  it.  Dyin'  by  inches  ! 
Dyin'  by  whole  yards,  by  Jo — ho — hove,  I  am  ! "  Indeed,  he  was 
as  bad  in  health  as  in  morals,  this  graceless  Captain. 

"That  man  of  Level's    seems  a  d insolent  beggar,"  he 

presently  and  ingenuously  remarks. 

"  Oh,  Uncte,  you  mustn't  say  those  words  ! "  cries  niece  Cissy. 

"  He's  a  man,  and  may  say  M'hat  he  likes,  and  so  will  I,  when 
I'm  a  man.  Yes,  and  I'll  say  it  now,  too,  if  I  like,"  cries  Master 
Popham. 

"  Not  to  give  me  pain,  Popham  1  Will  you  ? "  asks  the 
governess. 

On  which  the  boy  says — "Well,  who  wants  to  hurt  you.  Miss 
Prior  r' 

And  our  colloquy  ends  by  the  arrival  of  the  man  of  the  house 
from  the  City. 

What  I  have  admired  in  some  dear  women  is  their  capacity  for 
quarrelling  and  for  reconciliation.  As  I  saw  Lady  Baker  hanging 
round  her  son's  neck,  and  fondling  his  scanty  ringlets,  I  remembered 
the  awful  stories  with  which  in  former  days  she  used  to  entertain 
us  regarding  this  reprobate.  Her  heart  was  pincushioned  with  his 
filial  crimes.  Under  her  chestnut  front  her  Ladyship's  real  head 
of  hair  was  grey,  in  consequence  of  his  iniquities.  His  precocious 
appetite  had  devoured  the  greater  part  of  her  jointure.  He  had 
treated  her  many  dangerous  illnesses  with  indifference  :  had  been 
the  worst  son,  the  worst  brother,  the  most  ill-conducted  schoolboy, 
the  most  immoral  young  man — the  terror  of  houseliolde,  the  Lovelace 
of  garrison  towns,  the  perverter  of  young  oflicers ;  in  fact.  Lady 
Baker  <lid  not  know  how  she  supported  existence  at  all  under  the 
agony  occasioned  by  his  crimes,  and  it  was  only  from  the  possession 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  115 

of  a   more   tliaii   ordinarily  strong  sense  of  religion  that  she  was 
enabled  to  bear  her  burden. 

The  Captain  himself  explained  these  alternating  maternal 
caresses  and  quarrels  in  his  easy  way. 

"  Saw  how  the  old  lady  kissed  and  fondled  me  ? "  says  he  to  his 
brother-in-law.  "  Quite  refreshin',  ain't  it  ?  Hang  me,  I  thought 
she  was  goin'  to  send  me  a  bit  of  sweetbread  otf  her  own  plate. 
Came  up  to  my  room  last  night,  wanted  to  tuck  me  u])  in  bed, 
and  abused  my  brother  to  me  for  an  hour.  You  see,  when  I'm  in 
favour,  she  always  abuses  Baker ;  when  he's  in  favour  she  abuses 
me  to  him.  And  my  sister-in-law,  didn't  she  give  it  my  sister-in- 
law  !  Oh  !  I'll  trouble  you.  And  poor  Cecilia — why,  hang  me, 
Mr.  Batchelor,  she  used  to  go  on — this  bottle's  corked,  I'm  hanged 

if  it  isn't — to  go  on  about  Cecilia,  and  call  her Hullo  !  " 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  our  host,  who  said  sternly — 
"  Will  you  please  to  forget  tliose  quarrels,  or  not  mention  them 
here  1     Will  you  have  more  wine,  Batchelor  1 " 

And  Lovel  rises,  and  haughtily  stalks  out  of  the  room.  To  do 
Lovel  justice,  he  had  a  great  contempt  and  dislike  for  his  young 
brother-in-law,  which,  with  his  best  magnanimity,  he  could  not  at 
all  times  conceal. 

So  our  host  stalks  towards  the  drawing-room,  leaving  Captain 
Clarence  sipping  wine. 

"  Don't  go  too,"  says  the  Captain.  "  He's  a  confounded  rum 
fellow,  my  brother-in-law  is.  He's  a  confounded  ill-conditioned 
fellow  too.  They  ahvays  are,  you  know,  these  tradesmen  fellows, 
these  half-bred  'uns.  I  used  to  tell  my  sister  so ;  but  she  would 
have  him,  because  he  had  such  lots  of  money,  you  know.  And  she 
threw  over  a  fellar  she  was  very  fond  of;  and  I  told  her  she'd 
regret  it.  I  told  Lady  B.  she'd  regret  it.  It  was  all  Lady  B.'s 
doing.  She  made  Cissy  throw  the  fellar  over.  He  was  a  bad 
match,  certainly,  Tom  Mountain  was ;  and  not  a  clever  fellow,  you 
know,  or  that  sort  of  thing ;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  was  a  gentleman, 
and  better  than  a  confounded  sugar-baking  beggar  out  of  Ratclitt' 
Highway." 

"You  seem  to  find  that  claret  very  good,"  I  remark,  speaking, 
I  may  say,  Socratically,  to  my  young  friend,  who  had  been  swallow- 
ing bumper  after  bumper, 

"  Claret  good  1     Yes,  doosid  good  !  " 

"Well,  you  see  our  confounded  sugar-baker  gives  you  his  best." 

"  And  why  shouldn't  he,  hang  him "?     Why,  the  fellow  chokes 

with  money.     What  does  it  matter  to  him  how  much  he  spends  1 

You're  a  poor  man,   I   daresay.     You    don't    look  as  if  you  were 

overtlush  of  money.     Well,  if  you  stood  a  good  dinner,  it  would  be 


116  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

all  right — I  mean  it  would  show — you  understand  me,  you  know. 
But  a  sugar-baker  with  ten  thousand  a  year,  what  does  it  matter  to 
him,  bottle  of  claret  more — less  1 " 

"Let  us  go  in  to  the  ladies,"  I  say. 

"  Go  in  to  mother !  /  don't  want  to  go  in  to  my  mother," 
cries  out  the  artless  youtli.  "  And  I  don't  want  to  go  in  to  the 
sugar-baker,  hang  him  !  and  I  don't  want  to  go  in  to  the  children ; 
and  I'd  rather  have  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water  with  you,  old  boy. 
Here  you  !  What's  your  name  ?  Bedford  !  I  owe  you  five-and- 
twenty  shillings,  do  I,  old  Bedford?  Give  us  a  glass  of  Schnapps, 
and  I'll  pay  you  !  Look  here,  Batchelor.  I  hate  that  sugar-baker. 
Two  years  ago,  I  drew  a  bill  on  him,  and  he  wouldn't  pay  it — 
perhaps  he  would  have  paid  it,  but  my  sister  wouldn't  let  him. 
And,  I  say,  shall  we  go  and  Iiave  a  cigar  in  your  room  1  My 
mother's  been  abusing  you  to  me  like  fun  this  morning.  She 
abuses  everybody.  She  used  to  abuse  Cissy.  Cissy  used  to  abuse 
her — used  to  fight  like  two  cats " 

And  if  I  narrate  this  conversation,  dear  Spartan  youth  !  if  I 
show  thee  this  Helot  maundering  in  his  cups,  it  is  that  from  his 
odious  example  thou  may'st  learn  to  be  moderate  in  the  use  of 
thine  own.  Has  tlie  enemy  who  has  entered  thy  mouth  ever  stolen 
away  thy  brains  1  Has  wine  ever  caused  thee  to  blab  secrets ;  to 
utter  egotisms  and  follies  ?  Beware  of  it.  Has  it  ever  been  thy 
friend  at  the  end  of  the  hard  day's  work,  the  cheery  companion  of 
thy  companions,  the  promoter  of  harmony,  kindness,  harmless  social 
pleasure  1  Be  thankful  for  it.  Three  years  since,  when  the  comet 
was  blazing  in  the  autumnal  sky.  I  stood  on  the  chateau-steps  of 
a  great  claret  proprietor.  "  Boirai-je  de  ton  vin,  0  comfete?"  I 
said,  addressing  the  luminary  with  tlie  flaming  tail.  "  Shall  those 
generous  bunches  which  you  ripen  yield  their  juices  for  me  mo7'i- 
turo  ?  "  It  was  a  solemn  thought.  Ah  !  my  dear  brethren  !  who 
knows  the  Order  of  the  Fates  1  When  shall  we  pass  tlie  Gloomy 
Gates  1  Which  of  us  goes,  which  of  us  waits  to  drink  those  famous 
Fifty-eights  1  A  sermon,  upon  my  word  !  And  pray  why  not  a 
little  homily  on  an  autumn  eve  over  a  purple  cluster  1  ...  If  that 
rickety  boy  had  only  drunk  claret,  I  warrant  you  his  tongue  would 
not  have  blabbed,  his  hand  would  not  have  shaken,  his  wretched 
little  brain  and  body  would  not  liave  reeled  with  fever. 

'"Gad,"  said  he  next  day  to  me,  "cut  again  last  night.  Have 
an  idea  that  I  abused  Lovel.  When  I  have  a  little  wine  on  board, 
always  speak  my  mind,  don't  you  know  ?  Last  time  I  was  here  in 
my  poor  sister's  time,  said  somethin'  to  her,  don't  quite  know  what 
it  was,  somethin'  confoundedly  true  and  unpleasant  I  daresay.  I 
th!nk  it  was  about  a  fellow  siie  used  to  go  on  with  before  she 


A   BLACK    SHEEP  117 

married  the  sugar-baker.  And  I  got  orders  to  quit,  by  Jove,  sir — 
neck  and  crop,  sir,  and  no  mistake  !  And  we  gave  it  one  another 
over  the  stairs.  Oh,  my  !  we  did  jiitch  in  ! — and  that  was  tlie 
last  time  I  ever  saw  Cecilia — give  you  my  word.  A  doosid  unfor- 
giving woman  my  poor  sister  was,  and  between  you  and  me, 
Batchelor,  as  great  a  flirt  as  ever  threw  a  fellar  over.  You  sliould 
have  heard  her  and  my  Lady  B.  go  on,  that's  all ! — Well,  mamma, 
are  you  going  out  for  a  drive  in  the  coachy-poachy "? — Not  as  I 
knows  on,  thank  you,  as  I  before  had  the  honour  to  observe.  Mr. 
Batchelor  and  me  are  going  to  play  a  little  game  at  billiards."  AVc 
did,  and  I  won ;  and,  from  that  day  to  this,  have  never  been  paid 
my  little  winnings. 

On  the  day  after  the  doughty  Captain's  arrival,  Miss  Prior,  in 
whose  face  I  had  remarked  a  great  expression  of  gloom  and  care, 
neither  made  her  appearance  at  breakfast  nor  at  the  children's 
dinner.  "  Miss  Prior  was  a  little  unwell,"  Lady  Baker  said,  with 
an  air  of  most  jterfect  satisfaction.  "  Mr.  Drencher  will  come  to 
see  her  this  afternoon,  and  prescribe  for  her,  I  daresay,"  adds  her 
Ladyship,  nodding  and  winking  a  roguish  eye  at  me.  I  was  at  a 
loss  to  understand  what  was  the  point  of  humour  which  amused 
Lady  B.,  until  she  herself  explained  it. 

"  My  good  sir,"  she  said,  "  I  think  Miss  Prior  is  not  at  all 
averse  to  being  ill."     And  the  nods  recommenced. 

"  As  how  1 "  I  ask. 

"  To  being  ill,  or  at  least  to  calling  in  the  medical  man." 

"  Attachment  between  governess  and  Sawbones  I  make  bold  for 
to  presume  1 "  says  the  Captain. 

"Precisely,  Clarence — a  very  fitting  match.  I  saw  the  affair, 
even  before  Miss  Prior  owned  it — that  is  to  say,  she  has  not  denied 
it.  She  says  she  can't  afford  to  marry,  tliat  she  has  children  enough 
at  home  in  her  brothers  and  sisters.  She  is  a  well-principled  young 
woman,  and  does  credit,  Mr.  Batchelor,  to  your  recommendation, 
and  the  education  she  has  received  from  her  uncle,  the  Master  of 
St.  Boniface." 

"  Cissy  to  school ;  Pop  to  Eton  ;  and  Miss  What-d'you-call  to 
grind  the  pestle  in  Sawbones's  back-shop  :  I  see ! "  says  Captain 
Clarence.      "  He  seems  a  low  vulgar  blackguard,  that  Sawbones." 

"  Of  course,  my  love,  what  can  you  expect  from  that  sort  of 
person  ? "  asks  mamma,  wliose  own  father  was  a  small  attorney  in 
a  small  Irish  town. 

"I  wish  I  had  his  confounded  good  health,"  cries  Clarence, 
coughing. 

"  My  poor  darling  !  "  says  mamma. 

I  said  nothing.     And  so  Elizabeth  was  engaged  to  that  great 


118  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

broad-shouldered,  red-whiskered  young  surgeon  with  the  huge 
appetite  :iud  the  dubious  h'a  !  Well,  why  not  1  What  was  it  to 
me  1  Why  shouldn't  she  marry  him  1  Was  lie  not  an  honest  man, 
and  a  fitting  match  for  her  1  Yes.  Very  good.  Only  if  I  do  love  a 
bird  or  flower  to  glad  me  with  its  dark  blue  eye,  it  is  the  first  to 
fade  away.     If  I  have  a  partiality  for  a  young  gazelle,  it  is  the  first 

to psha  !    What  have  I  to  do  with  this  namby-pamby  1    Can  the 

he  irt  that  has  truly  loved  ever  forget,  and  doesn't  it  as  truly  love 

on  to  the stuft" !     I   am  past  the  age  of  such  follies.     I  might 

have  made  a  woman  happy  :  I  think  I  should.  But  the  fugacious 
years  have  lapsed,  my  Posthumus  !  My  waist  is  now  a  good  bit 
wider  than  my  chest,  and  it  is  decreed  that  I  shall  be  alone ! 

My  tone,  then,  when  next  I  saw  Elizabeth,  was  sorrowful — 
not  angry.  Drencher,  the  young  doctor,  came  punctually  enough, 
you  may  be  sure,  to  look  after  his  patient.  Little  Pinhorn,  the 
children's  maid,  led  the  young  practitioner  smiling  towards  the 
schoolroom  regions.  His  creaking  highlows  sprang  swiftly  up  the 
stairs.  I  happened  to  be  in  the  hall,  and  surveyed  him  with  a  grim 
pleasure.  "  Now  he  is  in  the  schoolroom,"  I  thought.  "  Now  he 
is  taking  her  hand — it  is  very  white — and  feeling  her  pulse.  And 
so  on,  and  so  on.  Surely,  surely,  Pinhorn  remains  in  the  room  ? " 
I  am  sitting  on  a  hall-table  as  I  muse  plaintively  on  these  things, 
and  gaze  up  the  stairs  by  Avhich  the  Hakeem  (great  carroty- 
whiskered  cad  !)  has  passed  into  tlie  sacred  precincts  of  the  harem. 
As  I  gaze  up  the  stair,  another  door  opens  into  the  hall ;  a  scowl- 
ing face  peeps  through  that  door,  and  looks  up  the  stair,  too.  'Tis 
Bedford,  who  has  slid  out  of  his  pantry,  and  watches  the  doctor. 
And  thou,  too,  my  poor  Bedford !  Oh  !  the  whole  world  throbs 
with  vain  heart-pangs,  and  tosses  and  heaves  with  longing  unfulfilled 
desires  !  All  night,  and  all  over  the  world,  bitter  tears  are  dropping 
as  regular  as  the  dew,  and  cruel  memories  are  haunting  the  pillow. 
Close  my  hot  eyes,  kind  Sleep  !  Do  not  visit  it,  dear  delusive 
images  out  of  the  Past !  Often  your  figure  shimmers  through  my 
dreams,  Glorvina.  Not  as  you  are  now,  the  stout  mother  of  many 
children — you  always  had  an  alarming  likeness  to  your  own  mother, 
Glorvina — but  as  you  were — slim,  black-haired,  blue-eyed — when 
your  carnation  lips  warbled  tlie  "  Vale  of  Avoca  "  or  the  "  Angel's 
Whisper."  "  What ! "  I  say  then,  looking  up  the  stair,  "am  I 
absolutely  groM'ing  jealous  of  yon  apothecary  ■?— -0  fool !  "  And  at 
this  juncture,  out  peers  Bedford's  face  from  the  pantry,  and  I  see 
he  is  jealous  too.  I  tie  my  shoe  as  I  sit  on  the  table ;  I  don't 
afl^ect  to  notice  Bedford  in  the  least  (who,  in  fact,  pops  his  own 
head  back  again  as  soon  as  he  sees  mine).  I  take  my  wideawake 
from  the  peg,  set  it  on  one  side  of  my  head,  and  strut  whistling 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  119 

out  of  the  hall-door.  I  stretch  over  Putney  Heath,  and  my  spirit 
resumes  its  tranquillity. 

I  sometimes  keep  a  little  journal  of  my  proceedings,  and  on 
referring  to  its  pages,  the  scene  rises  before  me  pretty  clearly  to 
which  the  brief  notes  allude.     On  this  day  I  find  noted  : — 

"  Friday,  July  14. 

"B.  came  down  to-day.  Seems  to  require  a  great  deal  of 
attendance  from  Dr.  .     Row  between  dowagers  after  dinner." 

"  B.,"  I  need  not  remark,  is  Bessy.  "  Dr.,"  of  course,  you  know. 
"  Row  between  dowagers "  means  a  battle  royal  between  Mrs. 
Bonnington  and  Lady  Baker,  siutli  as  not  unfrequently  raged  under 
the  kindly  Lovel's  roof 

Lady  Baker's  gigantic  menial  Bulkeley  condescended  to  wait  at 
the  family  dinner  at  Siu'ublands,  when  perforce  he  iiad  to  put  him- 
self under  Mr.  Bedford's  orders.  Bedford  would  gladly  have  dis- 
pensed with  the  London  footman,  over  whose  calves,  he  said,  he 
and  his  boy  were  always  tumbling ;  but  Lady  Baker's  dignity  would 
not  allow  her  to  jiart  from  her  own  man  ;  and  her  good-natured  son- 
in-law  allowed  her,  and  indeed  almost  all  other  persons,  to  have 
their  own  way.  I  have  reason  to  fear  Mr.  Bulkeley's  morals  were 
loose.  Mrs.  Bonnington  had  a  special  horror  of  him;  his  behaviour 
in  the  village  public-houses,  where  his  powder  and  plush  were  for 
ever  visible— his  freedom  of  conduct  and  conversation  before  the 
good  lady's  nurse  and  parlour-maids — provoked  her  anger  and  sus- 
picion. More  than  once,  she  whispered  to  me  her  loathing  of  this 
flour-besprinkled  monster ;  and,  as  much  as  such  a  gentle  ci'eature 
could,  she  showed  her  dislike  to  him  by  her  behaviour.  Tlie 
flunkey's  solemn  equanimity  was  not  to  be  disturbed  by  any  such 
feeble  indications  of  displeasure.  From  his  ])ow(lered  height,  he 
looked  down  upon  Mrs.  Bonnington,  and  her  esteem  or  her  dislike 
was  beneath  him 

Now  on  this  Friday  night  the  14th,  Captain  Clarence  had  gone 
to  pass  the  day  in  town,  ami  our  Bessy  made  her  ai)pearauce  again, 
the  Doctor's  prescriptions  having,  I  suppose,  agreed  with  her.  Mr. 
Bulkeley,  who  was  handing  coffee  to  the  ladies,  chose  to  offer  none 
to  Miss  Prior,  and  I  was  amused  wlien  I  saw  Bedford's  heel  scrunch 
down  on  the  flunkey's  riglit  foot,  as  he  pointed  towards  the  governess. 
The  oaths  which  Bulkeley  had  to  devour  in  silence  nsust  have  been 
frightful.  To  do  the  gallant  fellow  justice,  I  think  he  would  have 
died  rather  than  speak  l)efore  company  in  a  drawing-room.  He 
limped  up  and  offered  the  refreshment  to  tiie  young  lady,  who  bowed 
a.nd  declined  it. 


120  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

"Frederick,"  Mrs.  Bonnington  begins,  when  the  coffee  ceremony 
is  over,  "  now  the  servants  are  gone,  I  jnust  scold  you  about  tlie 
waste  at  your  table,  my  dear.  What  was  the  need  of  opening  that 
great  bottle  of  champagne  ?  Lady  Baker  only  takes  two  glasses. 
Mr.  Batchelor  doesn't  touch  it."  (No,  thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Bonningtou  :  too  old  a  stager.)  "  Why  not  have  a  little  bottle 
instead  of  that  great,  large,  immense  one  1  Bedford  is  a  teetotaller. 
I  suppose  it  is  that  London  footman  who  likes  it." 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  haven't  really  ascertained  his  tastes,"  says 
Lovel. 

"Then  why  not  tell  Bedford  to  open  a  pint,  dear?"  pursues 
mamma. 

"  Oh,  Bedford  —  Bedford,  we  must  not  mention  him,  Mrs. 
Bonnington  !  "  cries  Lady  Baker.  "  Bedford  is  faultless.  Bedford 
has  the  keys  of  everything.  Bedford  is  not  to  be  controlled  in  any- 
thing.    Bedford  is  to  be  at  liberty  to  be  rude  to  my  servant." 

"  Bedford  was  admirably  kind  in  his  attendance  on  your 
(laughter,  Lady  Baker,"  says  Lovel,  his  brow  darkening;  "and  as 
for  your  man,  I  should  think  he  was  big  enough  to  protect  him- 
self from  any  rudeness  of  poor  Dick  !  "  The  good  fellow  had 
been  angry  for  one  moment,  at  the  next  he  was  all  for  peace  and 
conciliation. 

Lady  Baker  puts  on  her  superfine  air.  With  that  air  she  had 
often  awe-stricken  good  simple  Mrs.  Bonnington  ;  and  she  loved  to 
use  it  whenever  City  folk  or  humble  people  were  present.  You  see 
she  thought  herself  your  superior  and  mine,  as  de  par  le  monde 
there  are  many  artless  Lady  Bakers  who  do.  "  My  dear  Frederick  !  " 
says  Lady  B.  then,  putting  on  her  best  Mayfair  manner,  "  excuse 
me  for  saying,  but  you  don't  know  the — the  class  of  servant  to 
which  Bulkeley  belongs.  I  had  him  as  a  great  favour  from  Lord 
Toddleby's.  That — that  class  of  servant  is  not  generally  accustomed 
to  go  out  single." 

"  Unless  they  are  two  behind  a  carriage-perch  they  pine  away, 
I  suppose,"  remarks  Mr.  Lovel,  "as  one  love-bird  does  without 
his  mate." 

"No  doubt — no  doubt,"  says  Lady  B.,  who  does  not  in  the 
least  understand  him ;  "  I  only  say  you  are  not  accustomed  here 
— in  this  kind  of  establishment,  you  understand — to  that  class 
of " 

But  liere  Mrs.  Bonnington  could  contain  her  wrath  no  more. 
"Lady  Baker!"  cries  that  injured  mother,  "is  my  son's  establish- 
ment not  good  enough  for  any  powdered  wretch  in  England  ?  Is 
the  house  of  a  British  merchant " 

"  My  dear  creature — my  dear  creature  ! "  interposes  her  Lady 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  121 

ship,  "  it  is  the  liouse  of  a  British  merchant,  and  a  most  comfortable 
house  too." 

"Yes,  as  you  find  it"  remarks  mamma. 

"  Yes,  as  I  find  it,  when  I  come  to  take  care  of  that  dextarted 
angeVs  children,  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  "■ — (Lady  B.  here  indicates  the 
CeciHan  effigy) — "of  that  dear  seraph's  or])]ians,  Mrs.  Bonnington  ! 
You  cannot.  You  have  other  duties — otlier  children — a  husband, 
whom  you  have  left  at  home  in  delicate  health,  and  who " 

"  Lady  Baker  !  "  exclaims  Mrs.  Bonnington,  "  no  one  shall  say 
I  don't  take  care  of  my  dear  husband  !  " 

"  My  dear  Lady  Baker  ! — my  dear — dear  mother  !  "  cries  Lovel, 
eplore,  and  whimpers  aside  to  me,  "  They  spar  in  this  way  every 
night,  when  we're  alone.     It's  too  bad,  ain't  it.  Batch  ?  " 

"  I  say  you  do  take  care  of  Mr.  Bonnington,"  Baker  blandly 
resumes  (she  has  hit  Mrs.  Bonnington  on  the  raw  place,  and 
smilingly  proceeds  to  thong  again) :  "  I  say  you  do  take  care  of 
your  husband,  my  dear  creature,  and  that  is  why  you  can't  attend 
to  Frederick  !  And  as  he  is  of  a  very  easy  temper, — except  some- 
times with  his  poor  Cecilia's  mother, — he  allows  all  his  tradesmen 
to  cheat  him  ;  all  his  servants  to  cheat  him ;  Bedford  to  be  rude  to 
everybody ;  and  if  to  me,  why  not  to  my  servant  Bulkelej',  witli 
whom  Lord  Toddleby's  gi'oom  of  the  chambers  gave  me  the  very 
highest  character "? " 

Mrs.  Bonnington  in  a  great  flurry  broke  in  by  saying  she  was 
surprised  to  hear  that  noblemen  had  grooms  in  their  chambers  : 
and  she  thought  they  were  much  better  in  the  stables  :  and  when 
they  dined  with  Captain  Huff,  you  know,  Frederick,  his  man 
always  brought  such  a  dreadful  smell  of  the  stable  in  with  him, 

that Here  she  paused.     Baker's  eye  was  on  her ;  and  that 

dowager  was  grinning  a  cruel  triumph. 

"  He  ! — he  !  You  mistake,  my  good  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  "  says 
her  Ladyship.  "  Your  poor  mother  mistakes,  my  dear  Frederick. 
You  have  lived  in  a  quiet  and  most  respectable  sphere,  but  not, 
you  understand,  not " 

"Not  what,  pray,  Lady  Baker?  We  have  lived  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood twenty  years :  in  my  late  husband's  time,  when  ive  satv 
a  great  deal  of  company,  and  this  dear  Frederick  was  a  boy  at 
Westminster  School.  And  we  have  paid  for  everything  we  have 
had  for  twenty  years ;  and  we  have  not  owed  a  penny  to  any 
tradesman.  And  we  may  not  have  had  p)oiodered  footmen,  six  feet 
high,  impertinent  beasts,  who  were  rude  to  all  the  maids  in  the 
place.  Don't — I  %vill  speak,  Frederick  !  But  servants  who  loved 
us,  and  who  WQve  2)aid  their  wages,  and  who — o — ho — ho — ho  !  " 

Wipe   your   eyes,    dear   friends !    out    with   all    your    pocket- 


122  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

handkerchiefs.  I  jn-otest  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  woman  in  distress. 
Of  course  Fred  Lovel  runs  to  console  his  dear  old  mother,  and  vows 
Lady  Baker  meant  no  harm. 

"  Meant  harm  !  My  dear  Frederick,  wliat  liarm  can  I  mean  ] 
I  only  said  your  poor  mother  did  not  seem  to  know  what  a  groom 
of  the  chambers  was  !     How  should  she  1 " 

"  Come — come,"  says  Frederick,  "  enough  of  this  !  Miss  Prior, 
will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  us  a  little  music  1 " 

Miss  Prior  was  playing  Beethoven  at  tlie  piano,  very  solemnly 
and  finely,  when  our  Black  Sheep  returned  to  tliis  quiet  fold,  and, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  a  very  riotous  condition.  The  brilliancy  of 
his  eye,  the  purple  flush  on  his  nose,  the  unsteady  gait,  and  un- 
certain tone  of  voice,  told  tales  of  Captain  Clarence,  wdio  stumbled 
over  more  than  one  chair  before  he  found  a  seat  near  me. 

"  Quite  right,  old  boy,"  says  he,  winking  at  me.  "  Cut  again — 
dooshid  good  fellosh.  Better  than  being  along  with  you  shtoopid- 
old-fogish."  And  he  began  to  warble  wild  "  Fol-de-rol-lols  "  in  an 
insane  accompaniment  to  the  music. 

"  By  heavens,  this  is  too  bad  !  "  growls  Lovel.  "  Lady  Baker, 
let  your  big  man  carry  your  son  to  bed.     Thank  you.  Miss  Prior  ! " 

At  a  final  yell,  which  the  unlucky  young  scapegrace  gave, 
Elizabeth  stopped,  and  rose  from  the  piano,  looking  very  pale. 
She  Jiiade  her  curtsey,  and  was  departing,  when  the  wretched 
young  Captain  sprang  up,  looked  at  her,  and  sank  back  on  the 
sofa  with  another  wild  laugh.  Bessy  fied  away  scared,  and  white 
as  a  sheet. 

"  Take  the  brute  to  bed  ! "  roars  the  master  of  tlie  house, 
in  great  wrath.  And  scapegrace  was  conducted  to  his  apartment, 
whither  he  went  laughing  wildly,  and  calling  out,  "  Come  on,  old 
sh-sh-sliugar-baker ! " 

The  morning  after  this  fine  exhibition.  Captain  Clarence  Baker's 
mamma  announced  to  us  that  her  poor  dear  suffering  boy  was  too 
ill  to  come  to  breakfast,  and  I  believe  he  prescribed  for  himself 
devilled  drumstick  and  soda-water,  of  which  he  partook  in  his 
bedroom.  Lovel,  seldom  angry,  was  violently  wroth  with  his 
brother-in-law ;  and,  almost  always  polite,  was  at  breakfest  scarcely 
civil  to  Lady  Baker.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  female  abused  her 
position.  She  appealed  to  Cecilia'.s  picture  a  great  deal  too  much 
during  the  course  of  breakfast.  She  hinted,  slie  sighed,  she  waggled 
her  head  at  me,  and  spoke  about  "  that  angel "  in  the  most  tragic 
manner.  Angel  is  all  very  well ;  but  your  angel  brought  in  a  tout 
propos ;  your  departed  blessing  called  out  of  her  grave  ever  so 
many  times  a  day ;  when  grandmamma  wants  to  carry  a  point 
of  her  own ;  when  the  children  are  naughty,  or  noisy ;  when  papa 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  123 

betrays  a  flickering  inclination  to  dine  at  his  Club,  or  to  bring 
home  a  bachelor  friend  or  two  to  Shrublands ; — I  say  your  angel 
always  dragged  in  by  the  wings  into  the  conversation  loses  her 
eflfect.  No  man's  heart  jjut  on  wider  crape  than  Lovel's  at  Cecilia's 
loss.  Considering  the  circumstances,  his  grief  was  most  creditable 
to  him  :  but  at  breakfast,  at  lunch,  about  Bulkelcy  the  footman, 
about  the  barouche  or  the  phaeton,  or  any  trumpery  domestic  per- 
jilexity,  to  have  a  Dens  intersit  was  too  inuch.  And  I  observed, 
witli  some  inward  satisfaction,  that  when  Baker  uttered  her  pompous 
funereal  phrases,  rolled  her  eyes  uj)  to  the  ceiling,  and  appealed  to 
tliat  quarter,  the  children  ate  their  jam  and  quarrelled  and  kicked 
their  little  shins  under  the  table,  Lovel  read  his  paper  and  looked 
at  his  watch  to  see  if  it  was  omnibus  time ;  and  Bessy  made  the 
tea,  quite  undisturbed  by  the  old  lady's  tragical  pi'attle. 

"When  Baker  described  her  son's  fearful  cough  and  dreadfully 
fevei'ish  state,  I  said,  "Surely,  Lady  Baker,  i/r.  Drencher  had 
better  be  sent  for ; "  and  I  suppose  I  uttered  the  disgusting  dis- 
syllable Drencher  with  a  fine  sarcastic  accent;  for  once,  just  once, 
Bessy's  grey  eyes  rose  through  the  spectacles  and  met  mine  with 
a  glance  of  unutterable  sadness,  then  calmly  settled  down  on  to  the 
slop-basin  again,  or  the  urn,  in  which  her  pale  features,  of  course, 
W'Cre  odiously  distorted. 

"You  will  not  bring  anybody  home  to  dinner,  Frederick,  in  my 
poor  boy's  state  ? "  asks  Lady  B. 

"  He  may  stay  in  his  bedroom  I  snp])ose,"  replies  Lovel. 

"  He  is  Cecilia's  brother,  Frederick  !  "  cries  the  Lady. 

"  Conf "  Lovel  was  beginning.     What  was  he  about  to  say  ? 

"  If  you  are  going  to  confound  your  angel  in  heaven,  I  have 
nothing  to  say,  sir  ! "  cries  the  mother  of  Clarence. 

"  Parbleu,  madame  ! "  cried  Lovel,  in  French  ;  "  if  he  were  not 
my  wife's  brother,  do  you  think  I  would  let  him  stay  here "? " 

"Parly  Francais?  Oui,  oui,  oui !  "  cries  Pop.  "I  know  what 
pa  means ! " 

"  And  so  do  /  know.  And  I  shall  lend  Uncle  Clarence  some 
books  wdiich  Mr.  Bennington  gave  me,  and " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  all !  "  shouts  Lovel,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot. 

"You  will,  perhaps,  have  the  great  kindness  to  allow  me  the 
use  of  your  carriage, — or,  at  least,  to  wait  here  until  my  poor 
suffering  boy  can  be  moved,  Mr.  Lovel  1 "  says  Lady  B.,  with  the 
airs  of  a  martyr. 

Lovel  rang  the  bell.  "  The  cai"i-i;\gc  foi"  Lady  Baker — at  her 
Tjadyship's  hour,  Bedford  :  and  tlu^  cart  for  her  luggage.  Her 
Ladyshij)  and  Captnin  B;ikcr  arc  going  away." 

"I  have  lost  one  cliild,  Mr.    Lovel,  whom  some   peoi»le  seem 


124  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

to  forget.  I  am  not  going  to  murder  another !  I  will  not  leave 
this  house,  sir,  unless  you  drive  me  from  it  by  force,  until  the 
medical  man  has  seen  my  boy  ! "  And  here  she  and  sorrow  sat 
down  again.  She  was  always  giving  warning.  She  was  always 
fitting  the  halter  and  traversing  the  cart,  was  Lady  B.,  but  she 
for  ever  declined  to  drop  the  handkerchief  and  have  the  business 
over.  I  saw  by  a  little  shrug  in  Bessy's  shoulders  what  the  gover- 
ness's views  were  of  the  matter :  and,  in  a  word.  Lady  B.  no  more 
went  away  on  this  day,  than  she  had  done  on  forty  previous  days 
when  she  announced  her  intention  of  going.  She  would  accept 
benefits,  you  see,  but  then  she  insulted  her  benefactors,  and  so 
squared  accounts. 

That  great  healthy,  florid,  scarlet-whiskered  medical  wretch 
came  at  about  twelve,  saw  Mr.  Baker  and  prescribed  for  him  :  and 
of  course  he  must  liave  a  few  words  with  Miss  Prior,  and  inquire 
into  the  state  of  her  health.  Just  as  on  tlie  previous  occasion,  I 
happened  to  be  in  the  hall  when  Drencher  went  upstairs ;  Bedford 
hippcned  to  be  looking  out  of  his  pan  try -door :  I  burst  into  a  yell 
of  laughter  when  I  saw  Dick's  livid  face — the  sight  somehow  suited 
my  savage  soul. 

No  sooner  was  Medicus  gone  than  Bessy,  gi'ave  and  pale,  in 
bonnet  and  spectacles,  came  sliding  downstairs.  I  do  not  mean 
down  the  banister,  which  was  Pop's  favourite  method  of  descent ; 
but  slim,  tall,  noiseless,  in  a  nunlike  calm,  she  swept  down  the 
steps.  Of  course  I  followed  her.  And  there  was  Master  Bedford's 
nose  peeping  through  the  pantry-door  at  us,  as  we  went  out  with 
the  children.  Pray,  what  business  of  his  was  it  to  be  always  watch- 
ing anybody  who  walked  with  Miss  Prior? 

"  So,  Bessy,"  I  said,  "  what  report  does  Mr. — hem  ! — Mr. 
Drencher — give  of  the  interesting  invalid  %  " 

"  Oh,  the  most  horrid !  He  says  that  Captain  Baker  has 
several  times  had  a  dreadful  disease  brought  on  by  drinking,  and 
that  he  is  mad  when  he  has  it.  He  has  delusions,  sees  demons, 
when  he  is  in  this  state — wants  to  be  watched." 

"  Drencher  tells  you  everything  %  " 

She  says  meekly  :  "  He  attends  us  when  we  are  ill." 

I  remark,  with  fine  irony  :  "  He  attends  the  whole  family :  he 
is  always  coming  to  Shrublands  !  " 

"  He  comes  very  often,"  Miss  Prior  says  gravely. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,  Bessy,"  I  cry,  madly  cutting  oflE 
two  or  three  heads  of  yellow  broom  with  my  stick — "  do  you  mean 
to  say  a  fellow  like  that,  who  drops  his  A's  about  the  room,  is  a 
welcome  visitor  % " 

"  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  if  he  were  not  welcome,  Mr. 


A   BLACK    SHEEP  125 

Biitchelor,"  says  Miss  Prior.  "And  call  ine  hy  my  surname,  please 
— and  he  has  taken  care  of  all  my  fomily — and " 

"And,  of  eourse,  of  course,  of  course.  Miss  Prior!"  say  I 
brutally;  "and  this  is  the  Avay  the  world  wags;  and  tliis  is  the 
way  we  are  ill,  and  are  cured ;  and  we  are  grateful  to  the  doctor 
that  cures  us  !  " 

Slie  nods  her  grave  head.  "You  used  to  he  kinder  to  me  once, 
Mr.  Batchelor,  in  old  days — in  your — in  my  time  of  trouble  ! 
Yes,  my  dear,  that  is  a  beautiful  bit  of  broom  !  Oh,  what  a  fine 
butterfly!"  (Cecilia  scours  the  plain  after  the  butterfly.)  "You 
used  to  be  kinder  to  me  once — when  we  were  both  luihappy." 

"I  was  unhappy,"  I  say,  "but  I  survived.  I  was  ill,  but  I 
am  now  pretty  well,  thank  you.  I  was  jilted  by  a  ftdse  heartless 
woman.  Do  you  suppose  tliere  are  no  other  heartless  women  in 
the  world?"  And  I  am  confident,  if  Bessy's  breast  had  not  been 
steel,  the  daggers  which  darted  out  from  my  eyes  would  have  bored 
frightful  stabs  in  it. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  and  looked  at  me  so  sadly  that  my 
eye-daggers  tumbled  down  to  the  ground  at  once  ;  for  you  see, 
though  I  am  a  jealous  Turk,  I  am  a  very  easily  appeased  jeahnis 
Turk ;  and  if  I  had  been  Bluebeard,  and  my  wife,  just  as  I  was 
going  to  decapitate  her,  ha<l  lifted  up  her  head  from  the  block,  and 
cried  a  little,  I  should  have  dropped  my  scimitar,  and  said,  "  Come, 
come,  Fatima,  never  mind  for  the  present  about  that  key  and  closet 
business,  and  I'll  chop  your  head  oft'  some  other  morning."  I  say, 
Bessy  disarmed  me.  Pooh  !  I  say,  women  will  make  a  fool  of  me 
to  the  end.  Ah  !  ye  gracious  Fates  !  Cut  my  thread  of  life  ere  it 
grow  too  long.  Suppose  I  were  to  live  till  seventy,  and  some  little 
wretch  of  a  woman  were  to  set  her  cap  at  me  1  She  would  catch 
me — I  know  she  would.  All  the  males  of  our  family  have  been 
spoony  and  soft,  to  a  degree  perfectly  ludicrous  and  despicable  to 

contemplate Well,   Bessy  Prior,   putting  a  hand  out,  looked 

at  me,  and  said — 

"You  are  the  oldest  and  best  friend  I  have  ever  had,  Mr. 
Batchelor — the  only  friend." 

"  Am  I,  Elizabeth  1 "  I  gasp,  with  a  beating  heart. 

"Cissy  is  running  back  with  a.  butterfly."  (Our  hands  unlock.) 
"  Don't  you  see  the  difiiculties  of  my  position  ?  Don't  you  know 
that  ladies  are  often  jealous  of  governesses  ;  and  that  unless — unless 
they  imagined  I  was — I  was  favoin-alile  to  Mr.  Drencher,  who  is 
very  good  and  kind — the  ladies  of  Shrublands  might  not  like  my 
remaining  alone  in  the  liouse  with — with — you  understand  ?  "  A 
moment  tlie  eyes  look  over  the  spectacles  :  at  the  next,  the  meek 
bonnet  bows  down  towards  the  ground. 


126  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

I  wonder  did  she  hear  the  bump — buiiiijing  of  my  heart !  0 
heart ! — -0  wounded  heart !  did  I  ever  think  tliou  wouldst  bump — 
bump  again?  "  Egl — Egl — izabeth,"  I  say,  choking  with  emotion, 
"do,  do,  do  you — te — tell  me — you  don't — don't — don't — lo — 
love  that  apothecary  1 " 

She  shrugs  her  shoulder — her  cliarming  shoulder. 

"And  if,"  I  hotly  continue,  "if  a  gentleman — if  a  man  of 
mature  age  certainly,  but  who  has  a  kind  heart  and  four  hundred 
a  year  of  his  own — were  to  say  to  you,  *  Elizabeth  !  will  you  bid 
the  flowers  of  a  blighted  life  to  bloom  again  1 — Elizabeth  !  will  you 
soothe  a  wounded  heart  1 ' " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Batch elor ! "  she  sighed,  and  then  added  quickly, 
"  Please,  don't  take  my  hand.     Here's  Pop." 

And  that  dear  child  (l)le.ss  him  !)  came  u])  at  the  moment,  say- 
ing, "  Oh,  Miss  Prior,  look  here !  I've  got  such  a  jolly  big  toad- 
stool ! "  And  next  came  Cissy,  with  a  confounded  butterfly.  0 
Richard  the  Third !  Haven't  you  been  maligned  because  you 
sniothered  two  little  nuisances  in  a  Tower  ?  "What  is  to  prove  to 
me  that  you  did  not  serve  the  little  brutes  right,  and  that  you 
weren't  a  most  humane  man  1  Darling  Cissy  coming  up,  then,  in 
her  dear  charming  way,  says,  "  You  shan't  take  Mr.  Batchelor's 
hand,  you  shall  take  my  hand  ! "  And  she  tosses  up  her  little 
head,  and  walks  with  the  instructress  of  her  youth. 

"  Ces  enfants  ne  comprennent  gu^re  le  Fran^ais,"  says  Miss 
Prior,  speaking  vei-y  rapidly. 

"  Aprfes  louche  ? "  I  wliisper.  The  fact  is,  I  was  so  agitated  I 
hardly  knew  what  the  French  for  lunch  was.  And  then  our  con- 
versation dropped :  and  the  beating  of  my  own  heart  Avas  all  the 
sound  I  heard. 

Lunch  came.  I  couldn't  eat  a  bit :  I  sliould  have  choked. 
Bessy  ate  plenty,  and  drank  a  glass  of  beer.  It  was  her  dinner,  to 
be  sure.  Young  Blachsheep  did  not  appear.  We  did  not  miss 
him.  When  Lady  Baker  began  to  tell  her  story  of  George  the 
Fourth  at  Slane  Castle,  I  went  into  my  own  room.  I  took  a  book. 
Books  1     Psha !     I  went  into    the  garden.     I  took  out  a  cigar. 

But  no,  I  would  not  smoke  it.     Perhaps  she many  people  don't 

like  smoking. 

I  went  into  the  garden.  "  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud."  I 
sat  by  a  large  lilac-bush.  I  waited.  Perhaps  she  w^ould  come  1 
The  morning-room  windows  were  wide  open  on  the  lawn.  Will 
she  never  come  1  Ah  !  what  is  that  tall  form  advancing  1  gliding 
— gliding  into  the  chamber  like  a  beauteous  ghost  1  "  Who  most 
does  like  an  angel  show,  you  may  be  sure  'tis  she."  She  comes 
up  to  the  glass.     She  lays  her  spectacles  down  on  the  mantelpiece. 


A    BLACK    SHEEP  127 

She  puts  a  slim  wliite  hand  over  lier  aulmni  hair  and  hioks  into 
the  mirror.     Elizabetli,  Elizabeth  !  I  come  ! 

As  I  came  up,  I  saw  a  horrid  little  grinning,  debauched  face 
surge  over  the  back  of  a  great  armchair  and  look  towards  Elizabeth. 
It  was  Captain  Blacksheep,  of  course.  He  laid  his  elbows  over  the 
chair.  He  looked  keenly  and  with  a  diabolical  smile  at  the  un- 
conscious girl ;  and  just  as  I  reached  the  window,  he  cried  out, 
'^  Bessy  BeUenden,  hy  Jove  !  " 

Elizabeth  turned  round,  gave  a  little  cry,  and— —  but  wha''" 
happened  I  shall  tell  in  the  ensuing  chapter. 


CHAPTER   V 

IN  in  lie  H  I  AM  STUNG  BY  A  SERPENT 

IF  when  I  heard  Baker  call  out  Bessy  Bellendeii,  and  adjure  Jove, 
he  had  run  forward  and  seized  Elizabeth  by  the  waist,  or 
offered  her  other  personal  indignity,  I  too  should  have  run 
forward  on  my  side  and  engaged  him.  Though  I  am  a  stout 
elderly  man,  short  in  stature  and  in  wind,  I  know  I  am  a  match 
for  that  rickety  little  Captain  on  his  high-heeled  boots.  A  match 
for  him  1  I  believe  Miss  Bessy  would  have  been  a  match  for  both 
of  us.  Her  white  arm  was  as  hard  and  polished  as  ivory.  Had 
she  held  it  straiglit  pointed  against  the  rush  of  the  dragoon,  he 
would  have  fallen  backwards  before  his  inten<led  prey :  I  have  no 
doubt  he  would.  It  was  the  hen,  in  this  case,  was  stronger  than 
the  libertine  fox,  and  au  besoin  would  have  pecked  the  little  maraud- 
ing vermin's  eyes  out.  Had,  I  say,  Partlet  been  weak,  and  Reynard 
strong,  I  toould  have  come  forward  :  I  certainly  would.  Had  he 
been  a  wolf  now,  instead  of  a  fox,  I  am  certain  I  should  have  run 
in  upon  him,  grappled  with  him,  torn  his  heart  and  tongue  out  of 
his  black  throat,  and  trampled  the  lawless  brute  to  death. 

Well,  I  didn't  do  any  such  thing.  I  was  just  going  to  run  in 
— and  I  didn't.  I  was  just  going  to  rush  to  Bessy's  side  to  clasp 
her  (I  have  no  doubt)  to  my  heart :  to  beard  the  whiskered 
champion  who  was  before  her,  and  perhaps  say,  "  Cheer  thee — 
cheer  thee,  my  persecuted  maiden,  my  beauteous  love — my  Rebecca  ! 
Come  on,  8ir  Brian  de  Bois  Guilbert,  thou  dastard  Templar !  It 
is  I,  Sir  Wilfrid  of  Ivanhoe."  (By  the  way,  though  the  fellow  was 
not  a  Templar,  he  was  a  Lincoln' s-In7i-man,  having  passed  twice 
through  the  Insolvent  Court  there  with  infinite  discredit.)  But  I 
made  no  heroic  speeches.  There  was  no  need  for  Rebecca  to  jump 
out  of  window  and  risk  her  lovely  neck.  How  could  she,  in  fact, 
the  French  window  being  flush  with  the  ground-floor  1  And  I  give 
you  my  honour,  just  as  I  was  crying  my  war-cry,  couching  my  lance, 
and  rushing  a  la  rescovsse  upon  Sir  Baker,  a  sudden  thought  made 
me  drop  my  (figurative)  point :  a  sudden  idea  made  me  rein  in  my 
galloping  (metaphorical)  steed  and  s]iaro  Baker  for  that  time. 

Suppose  I  had  gone  in  ?     But  for  that  sudden  precaution,  there 


I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  129 

might  have  been  a  j\Irs.  Batchelor.  I  niiglit  have  been  a  bullied 
father  of  ten  children.  (Elizabeth  has  a  fine  high  temper  of  her 
own.)  What  is  four  hundred  and  twenty  a  year,  with  a  wife  and 
perhaps  half-a-dozen  children  1  Should  I  have  been  a  whit  the 
happier  1  Would  Elizabeth  1  Ah  !  no.  And  yet  I  feel  a  certain 
sort  of  shame,  even  now,  when  I  think  that  I  didn't  go  in.  Not 
that  I  was  in  a  fright,  as  some  people  choose  to  hint.  I  swear  I 
was  not.     But  the  reason  why  I  did  not  charge  was  tliis 

Nay,  I  did  charge  part  of  the  way,  and  then,  I  own,  stopped. 
It  was  an  error  in  judgment.  It  wasn't  a  want  of  courage.  Lord 
George  Sackville  was  a  brave  man,  ami  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  under 
fire.  Well,  he  didn't  charge  at  the  battle  of  Minden,  and  Prince 
Ferdinand  made  the  deuce  and  all  of  a  disturbance,  as  we  know. 
Byng  was  a  brave  man, — and  I  ask,  wasn't  it  a  confounded  shame 
executing  him  1  So  with  respect  to  myself  Here  is  my  statement. 
I  make  it  openly.  I  don't  care.  I  am  accused  of  seeing  a  woman 
insulted,  and  not  going  to  her  rescue.  I  am  not  guilty,  I  say. 
That  is,  there  were  reasons  which  caused  me  not  to  attack.  Even 
putting  aside  the  superior  strength  of  Elizabeth  herself  to  the  enemy, 
— I  vow  there  were  cogent  and  honourable  reasons  why  I  did  not 
charge  home. 

You  see  I  happened  to  be  behind  a  blue  lilac-bush  (and  was 
turning  a  rhyme — Heaven  help  us  ! — in  which  death  was  only  to 
part  me  and  Elizabeth)  when  I  saw  Baker's  face  surge  over  the 
chair-back.  I  rush  forward  as  he  cries  "  By  Jove  !  "  Had  Miss 
Prior  cried  out  on  her  part,  the  strength  of  twenty  Heenans,  I 
know,  would  have  nerved  this  arm  :  but  all  she  did  was  to  turn 
pale,  and  saj',  "  Oh,  mercy  !  Captain  Baker  !     Do  pity  me  !  " 

"  What !  you  remember  me,  Bessy  Bellenden,  do  you  1 "  asks 
the  Captain,  advancing. 

"  Oh,  not  that  name  !  please,  not  that  name  !  "  cries  Bessy. 

"  I  thought  I  knew  you  yesterday,"  says  Baker.  "  Only,  gad, 
you  see,  I  had  so  much  claret  on  board,  I  did  not  much  know  what 
was  what.  And  oh  !  Bessy,  I  have  got  such  a  splitter  of  a  head- 
ache." 

"  Oh  !  please — please,  my  name  is  Miss  Prior.  Pray  !  pray, 
sir,  don't " 

"You've  got  handsomer — doosid  deal  handsomer.  Know  you 
now  well,  your  spectacles  off.     You  come  in  here — teach  my  nejjhew 

and  niece,  humbug  my  sister,  make  love  to  the  sh Oh  !  you 

uncommon  sly  little  toad  !  " 

"Captain  Baker,  I  beg — I  im])l()re  you,"  says  Bessy,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort :  for  the  wliite  liands  assumed  an  attitude  of 
supplication. 


130  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

"  Poiili  !  don't  gaimnon  vie ! "  says  the  rickety  Captain  (or 
words  to  that  effect),  and  seizes  those  two  firm  white  hands  in  \m 
moist  trembling  pahns. 

Now  do  you  imder.stand  why  I  -paused  1  When  the  dandy  came 
grinning  forward,  with  looks  and  gestures  of  familiar  recognition  : 
when  tlie  pale  Elizabeth  implored  him  to  spare  her  : — a  keen  arrow 
of  jealousy  shot  whizzing  through  my  heart,  and  caused  me  well- 
nigh  to  fall  backwards  as  I  ran  foi'wards.  I  bumped  up  against  a 
bronze  grouj)  in  the  garden.  The  group  represented  a  lion  stung 
by  a  serpent.  /  was  a  lion  stung  by  a  servient  too.  Even  Baker 
could  have  knocked  me  down.  Fiends  and  anguish  !  he  had  known 
her  before.  The  Academy,  the  life  she  had  led,  the  wretched  old 
tipsy  ineffective  guardian  of  a  father — all  these  antecedents  in  poor 
Bessy's  history  passed  through  my  mind.  And  I  had  offered  my 
heart  and  troth  to  this  woman !  Now,  my  dear  sir,  I  appeal  to 
you.  What  would  yoio  have  done  1  Would  you  have  liked  to 
have  such  a  sudden  suspicion  thrown  over  the  being  of  your  affec- 
tion ?  '•'  Oh  !  spare  me — spare  me  !  "  I  heard  her  say,  in  clear — 
too  clear — pathetic  tones.  And  then  there  came  rather  a  shrill 
"  All !  "  and  then  the  lion  was  up  in  my  breast  again ;  and  I  give 
you  my  honour,  just  as  I  was  going  to  step  forward — to  step? — to 
rush  forward  from  behind  tlie  urn  where  I  had  stood  for  a  moment 
with  thumping  heart,  Bessy's  ''Ah  !  "  or  little  cry  was  followed  by 
a  lohack,  which  I  heard  as  clear  as  anything  I  ever  heard  in  my 
life  ; — and  I  saw  the  little  Captain  spin  back,  topple  over  a  chair 
heels  up,  and  in  this  posture  heard  him  begin  to  scream  and  curse 
in  shrill  tones.  .  .  . 

Not  for  long,  for  as  the  Captain  and  the  chair  tumble  down,  a 
door  springs  open  ; — a  man  rushes  in,  who  pounces  like  a  panther 
upon  the  prostrate  Captain,  pitches  into  his  nose  and  eyes,  and 
chokes  his  bad  language  by  sending  a  fist  down  his  naughty  throat. 

"  Oh  !  thank  you,  Bedford  ! — please,  leave  him,  Bedford  !  that's 
enougli.  There,  don't  hurt  him  any  more  ! "  says  Bessy,  laughing — 
laughing,  upon  my  word. 

"Ah  !  will  you?"  says  Bedford.  "Lie  still,  you  little  beggar, 
or  I'll  knock  your  head  off.  Look  here.  Miss  Prior  ? — Elizabeth — 
dear — dear  Elizabeth  !  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  soul,  and 
strength — I  do." 

"  0  Bedford  !  Bedford  !  "  warliles  Elizabeth. 

"  I  do  !  I  can't  help  it.  I  must  say  it !  Ever  since  Rome,  I  do. 
Lie  still,  you  drunken  little  beast !  It's  no  use.  But  I  adore  you, 
0  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  I "  And  there  was  Dick,  who  was  always 
following  Miss  P.  about,  and  poking  his  head  into  keyholes  to  s[)y  her, 
actually  making  love  to  her  over  the  prostrate  body  of  the  Captain. 


BEDFORD   TO    THE   RESCUE. 


I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  131 

Now,  what  was  I  to  do?  Wasn't  I  in  a  most  confoundedly 
awkward  situation  1  A  lady  had  been  attacked — a  lady  1 — the 
lady,  and  I  hadn't  rescued  her.  Her  insolent  enemy  was  over- 
thrown, and  I  hadn't  done  it.  A  champion,  three  inches  shorter 
than  myself,  had  come  in,  and  dealt  the  blow.  I  was  in  such  a 
rage  of  mortification,  that  I  should  have  liked  to  thrash  the  Captain 
and  Bedford  too.  The  first  I  know  I  could  have  matched  :  the 
second  was  a  tough  little  hero.  And  it  was  he  who  rescued  the 
damsel,  whilst  I  stood  by  !  In  a  strait  so  odious,  sudden,  and 
humiliating,  wliat  should  I,  what  could  I,  what  did  I  do  ? 

Behind  the  lion  and  snake  there  is  a  brick  wall  and  marble 
balustrade,  built  for  no  ])articidar  reason,  but  flanking  three  steps 
and  a  grassy  terrace,  wliicli  then  rises  up  on  a  level  to  tlie  liouse- 
windows.  Beyond  the  balustrade  is  a  shrubbery  of  more  lilacs  and 
so  forth,  by  which  you  can  walk  round  into  another  path,  which 
also  leads  up  to  the  house.  So  as  I  had  not  cliarged — ah  !  woe  is 
me  ! — as  the  battle  was  over,  I — I  just  went  round  that  shrub- 
bery into  the  other  path,  and  so  entered  tlie  house,  arriving  like 
Fortinbras  in  "  Hamlet,"  when  everybody  is  dead  and  sprawling, 
you  know,  and  the  whole  business  is  done. 

And  was  there  to  be  no  end  to  my  shame,  or  to  Bedford's 
laurels?  In  that  brief  interval,  whilst  I  was  walking  round  the 
bypath  (just  to  give  myself  a  pretext  for  entering  coolly  into  the 
premises),  this  fortunate  fellow  had  absolutely  engaged  another  and 
larger  champion.  This  was  no  other  than  Bulkeley,  my  Lady  B.'s 
first-class  attendant.  AVhen  the  Captain  fell,  amidst  his  screams 
and  curses,  he  called  for  Bulkeley  :  and  that  individual  made  his 
appearance,  with  a  little  Scotcli  cap  perched  on  his  powdered  head. 

"Hullo  '  wliat's  the  row  year?"  says  Goliath,  entering. 

"  Kill  that  blackguard  !  Hang  him,  kill  him  !  "  screams  Captain 
Blacksheep,  rising  with  bleeding  nose. 

"I  say,  what's  the  row  year?"  asks  the  grenadier. 

"  Off"  with  your  cap,  sir,  before  a  lady  !  "  calls  out  Bedford. 

"  Hoft"  with  my  cap  !  you  be  bio " 

But  he  said  no  more,  for  little  Bedford  jumped  some  two  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  knocked  the  cap  ofi",  so  that  a  cloud  of 
ambrosial  powder  filled  the  room  with  violet  odours.  The  immense 
frame  of  the  giant  shook  at  this  insult :  "  I  will  be  the  death  on 
you,  you  little  beggar ! "  he  grunted  out ;  and  was  advancing  to 
destroy  Dick,  just  as  I  entered  in  tlie  cloud  which  his  head  had 
raised. 

"  I']]  knock  the  brains  as  well  as  the  powder  out  of  your  ugly 
head  !  "  says  Bedford,  sj)ringing  at  the  poker.  At  which  juncture  I 
entered. 


132  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

"  What — wliat  is  this  disturbance  1 "  I  say,  advancing  with  an 
air  of  mingled  surjjrise  and  resolution. 

"You  git  out  of  the  way  till  I  knock  his  'ead  off!"  roars 
Bulkeley. 

"  Take  up  your  cap,  sir,  and  leave  the  room,"  I  say,  still  with 
the  same  elegant  firmness. 

"  Put  down  tliat  there  poker,  you  coward  !  "  bellows  the  monster 
on  l)oard-wages. 

"  Miss  Prior  ! "  I  say  (like  a  dignified  hypocrite,  as  I  own  I 
was),  "  I  hope  no  one  has  offered  you  a  rudeness  1 "  And  I  glare 
round,  first  at  the  knight  of  the  bleeding  nose,  and  then  at  his 
squire. 

Miss  Prior's  face,  as  she  replied  to  me,  wore  a  look  of  awful 
scorn. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  turning  her  head  over  her  shoulder 
and  looking  at  me  with  her  grey  eyes.  "Thank  you,  Richard 
Bedford  !  God  bless  you  !  I  sliall  ever  be  thankful  to  you,  wherever 
I  am."     And  the  stately  figure  swept  out  of  the  room. 

She  had  seen  me  behind  that  confounded  statue,  then,  and  I 
had  not  come  to  her  !  0  torments  and  racks  !  0  scorpions,  fiends, 
and  pitchforks  !  The  face  of  Bedford,  too '  (flashing  with  knightly 
gratitude  anon  as  she  spoke  kind  words  to  him  and  passed  on), 
wore  a  look  of  scorn  as  he  turned  towards  me,  and  then  stood,  his 
nostrils  distended  and  breathing  somewhat  hard,  glaring  at  his 
enemies,  and  still  grasping  his  mace  of  battle. 

When  Elizabeth  was  gone,  there  was  a  pause  of  a  moment, 
and  then  Blacksheep,  taking  his  bleeding  cambric  from  his  nose, 
slirieks  out,  "  Kill  him,  I  say  !  A  fellow  that  dares  to  hit  one  in 
my  condition,  and  when  I'm  down  !  Bulkeley,  you  great  hulking 
jackass  !  kill  him,  I  say  !  " 

"  Jest  let  him  put  that  there  poker  down,  that's  hall,"  growls 
Bulkeley. 

"  You're  afraid,  you  great  cowardly  beast !  You  shall  go,  Mr. 
What-d'ye-call-'im— Mr.  Bedford— you  shall  have  the  sack,  sir,  as 
sure  as  your  name  is  what  it  is  !  I'll  tell  my  brother-in-law  every- 
thing ;  and  as  for  that  Avoman " 

"  If  you  say  a  word  against  her,  I'll  cane  you  wdierever  I  see 
you.  Captain  Baker  1 "  I  cry  out. 

"Who  spoke  to  you?"  says  the  Captain,  falling  back  and 
scowling  at  me. 

"  Who  hever  told  you  to  put  your  foot  in  ? "  says  the  squire. 

I  was  in  such  a  rage,  and  so  ea,<;er  to  find  an  object  on  which 
I  might  wreak  my  fury,  that  I  confess  I  plunged  at  this  Bulkeley. 
I  gave  him  two  most  violent  blows  on  the  waistcoat,  which  caused 


I    AM    ST     NG    BY    A    SERPENT  133 

him  to  double  uj)  with  such  frightful  contortions,  that  Bedford  burst 
out  laughing ;  and  even  the  Captain  with  tlie  damaged  eye  and  nose 
began  to  laugh  too.  Then,  taking  a  lesson  from  Dick,  as  there  Avas 
a  fine  shining  dagger  on  the  table,  used  for  the  cutting  open  of 
reviews  and  magazines,  I  seized  and  brandished  this  weapon,  and 
I  daresay  would  have  sheathed  it  in  the  giant's  bloated  corpus,  had 
he  made  any  movement  towards  me.  But  he  only  called  out, 
"hl'U  be  the  death  on  you,  you  cowards!  hl'll  be  the  death  of 
both  on  you  ! "  and  snatching  up  his  cap  from  the  carpet,  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

"  Glad  you  did  that,  though,"  says  Baker,  nodding  his  head. 
"Think  rd"^best  pack  up." 

And  now  the  Devil  of  Rage  which  had  been  swelling  witliin 
me  gave  place  to  a  worse  devil — the  Devil  of  Jealousy— and  I 
turned  on  the  Captain,  who  was  also  just  about  to  slink  away  : — 

"  Stop  !  "  I  cried  out — I  screamed  out,  I  may  say. 

"  Who  spoke  to  you,  I  should  like  to  know  1  and  who  the 
dooce  dares  to  speak  to  me  in  that  sort  of  way  1 "  says  Clarence 
Baker,  with  a  plentiful  garnish  of  expletives,  which  need  not  be 
here  inserted.  But  he  stopped,  nevertheless,  and  turned  slouching 
round. 

"  You  spoke  just  now  of  Miss  Prior  ? "  I  said.  "  Have  you 
anything  against  her  1 " 

'  "  What's  that  to  you  1 "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  her  oldest  friend.  I  introduced  her  into  this  family. 
Dare  you  say  a  word  against  her  1 " 

"  Well,  who  the  dooce  has  1 " 

"  You  knew  her  before  ? " 

"Yes,  I  did,  then." 

"  When  she  went  by  the  name  of  Bellenden  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  did.     And  what's  that  to  you  1 "  he  screams  out. 

"  I  this  day  asked  her  to  be  my  wife,  sir  !  I'luxt's  what  it  is 
to  me  !  "  I  replied  with  severe  dignity. 

Mr.  Clarence  began  to  whistle.  "  Oh  !  if  that's  it — of  course 
not !  "  he  says. 

The  jealous  demon  writhed  within  me  and  rent  me. 

"You  mean  that  there  is  something,  then?"  I  asked,  glaring 
at  the  young  reprobate. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  says  he,  looking  very  much  frightened.  "  No, 
there  is  nothin'.  Upon  my  sacred  honour,  there  isn't,  that  I 
know."  (I  was  looking  uncommonly  fierce  at  this  time,  and,  I 
must  own,  would  rather  have  quarrelled  with  somebody  than  not.) 
"  No,  there  is  nnthin'  that  I  know.  Ever  so  many  years  ago,  you 
see,  I  used  to  go  with  Tom  Papillion,  Turkington,  and  two  or  three 


134  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

fellows,  to  that  theatre.  Dolphin  hud  it.  And  we  used  to  go 
behind  the  scenes — and — and  I  own  I  had  a  row  with  her.  And 
I  was  in  the  wrong.  There  now,  I  own  I  M'as.  And  she  left  the 
tlieatre.  And  she  behaved  quite  right.  And  I  was  very  sorry. 
And  I  believe  she  is  as  good  a  woman  as  ever  stept  now.  And  the 
father  was  a  disreputable  old  man,  but  most  honourable — I  know 
he  was.  And  tliere  was  a  fellow  in  the  Bombay  service — a  fellow 
by  the  name  of  Walker  or  Walkingham — yes,  Walkingham ;  and 
I  used  to  meet  him  at  the  '  Cave  of  Harmony,'  you  know ;  and  he 
told  me  that  she  was  as  right  as  right  could  be.  And  he  was 
doosidly  cut  up  about  leaving  her.  And  he  would  have  married 
her,  I  dcssay,  only  for  his  father  the  General,  who  wouldn't  stand 
it.  And  he  was  ready  to  hang  himself  when  he  went  away.  He 
used  to  drink  awfully,  and  tlien  he  used  to  swear  about  her ;  and 
■we  used  to  chaff  him,  you  know.  Low  vulgarish  sort  of  man,  he 
was ;  and  a  very  passionate  fellow.  And  if  you're  goin'  to  njarry 
her,  you  know — of  course,  I  ask  your  pardon,  and  that ;  and  upon 
the  honour  of  a  gentleman  I  know  nothin'  against  her.  And  I  wish 
you  joy  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  do  now,  really  now  ! "  And 
so  saying,  the  mean  mischievous  little  monkey  sneaked  away,  and 
clambei'cd  up  to  his  own  perch  in  his  own  bedroom. 

Wortliy  Mrs.  Bonnington,  with  a  couple  of  her  young  ones, 
made  her  appearance  at  this  juncture.  She  had  a  key,  which  gave 
her  a  free  pass  through  the  garden  door,  and  brought  her  children 
for  an  afternoon's  play  and  fighting  with  their  little  nephew  and 
niece.  Decidedly,  Bessy  did  not  bring  up  her  young  folks  well. 
Was  it  that  their  grandmothers  spoiled  them,  and  undid  the 
governess's  w^ork  1  AVere  those  young  people  odious  (as  they  often 
were)  by  nature,  or  rendered  so  by  the  neglect  of  their  guardians  1 
If  Bessy  had  loved  her  charges  more,  would  they  not  have  been 
better  ?  Had  she  a  kind,  loving,  maternal  heart  1  Ha !  This 
thought, — this  jealous  doubt, — smote  my  bosom:  and  were  she 
mine,  and  the  mother  of  many  possible  little  Batchelors,  would  she 
be  kind  to  thetn  ?  Would  they  be  wilful,  and  selfish,  and  abomin- 
able little  wretches,  in  a  word,  like  these  children  1  Nay — nay ! 
Say  that  Elizabeth  has  but  a  cold  heart ;  we  cannot  be  all  perfec- 
tion. But,  per  contra,  you  must  admit  tliat,  cold  as  she  is,  she 
does  her  duty.  How  good  she  has  been  to  her  own  brothers  and 
sisters  :  how  cheerfully  she  has  given  away  her  savings  to  them : 
how  admirably  slie  has  behaved  to  her  mother,  hiding  the  iniquities 
of  that  disreputable  old  schemer,  and  covering  her  improprieties 
with  decent  filial  screens  and  pretexts.  Her  mother  1  Ah  !  fp-ands 
dieux  !  You  want  to  marry,  Charles  Batchelor,  and  you  will  have 
that  greedy  pauper  for  a  mother-in-law ;  that  fluffy  Bluecoat  boy, 


I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  135 

those  hobnailed  taw-players,  top-spiuners,  toffee-eaters,  those  under- 
bred girls,  for  your  brothers  and  sisters-in-law !  They  will  be 
quartered  upon  you.  You  are  so  absurdly  weak  and  good-natured 
— you  know  you  are — that  you  will  never  be  able  to  resist.  Those 
boys  will  grow  up ;  they  will  go  out  as  clerks  or  shop-boys ;  get 
into  debt  and  expect  you  to  pay  their  bills :  want  to  be  articled  to 
attorneys  and  so  forth,  and  call  upon  you  for  the  premium.  Their 
mother  will  never  be  out  of  your  house.  She  will  ferret  about  in 
your  drawers  and  wardrobes,  filch  your  haberdashery,  and  cast 
greedy  eyes  on  the  very  shirts  and  coats  on  your  back,  and  calculate 
when  she  can  get  them  for  her  boys.  Those  vulgar  young  miscreants 
will  never  fail  to  come  and  dine  with  you  on  a  Sunday.  They  will 
bring  their  young  linendraper  or  articled  friends.  They  will  draw 
bills  on  you,  or  give  their  own  to  money-lenders,  and  unless  you 
take  up  those  bills  tliey  will  consider  you  a  callous  avaricious  brute, 
and  the  heartless  author  of  their  ruin.  The  girls  will  come  and 
practise  on  your  wife's  piano.  They  won't  come  to  you  on  Sundays 
only ;  they  will  always  be  staying  in  the  house.  They  will 
always  be  preventing  a  tete-a-tete  between  your  wife  and  you.  As 
they  grow  old,  they  will  want  her  to  take  them  out  to  tea-parties, 
and  to  give  such  entertainnjents,  where  they  will  introduce  their 
odious  young  men.  They  will  expect  you  to  conunit  meannesses,  in 
order  to  get  theatre  tickets  for  them  from  the  newspaper  editors  of 
your  acquaintance.  You  will  have  to  sit  in  the  back  seat ;  to  pay 
the  cab  to  and  from  the  play  :  to  see  glances  and  bows  of  recogni- 
tion' passing  between  them  and  dubious  bucks  in  the  lobbies  :  and 
to  lend  the  girls  your  wife's  gloves,  scarfs,  ornaments,  smelling- 
bottles,  and  handkerchiefs,  which  of  course  they  will  never  return. 
If  Elizabeth  is  ailing  from  any  circumstance,  they  will  get  a  footing 
in  your  house,  and  she  will  be  jealous  of  them.  The  ladies  of  your 
own  family  will  quarrel  with  them  of  course ;  and  very  likely  your 
mother-in-law  will  tell  tliem  a  piece  of  her  mind.  And  you  bring 
this  dreary  certainty  upon  you,  because,  forsooth,  you  fall  in  love 
with  a  fine  figure,  a  pair  of  grey  eyes,  and  a  head  of  auburn  (not  to 
say  red)  hair !  0  Charles  Batclielor !  in  what  a  galley  hast  thou 
seated  thyself,  and  what  a  family  is  crowded  in  thy  boat ! 

All  these  thouglits  are  passing  in  my  mind,  as  good  Mrs. 
Bonnington  is  prattling  to  me — I  protest  I  don't  know  about  what. 
I  think  I  caught  some  fiiint  sentences  about  the  Patagonian  mission, 
the  National  schools,  and  Mr.  Bonnington's  lumbago  ;  but  I  can't 
say  for  certain.  I  was  busy  with  my  own  thoughts.  I  had  asked 
the  awful  question — I  was  not  answered.  Bessy  had  even  gone  away 
in  a  huff  about  my  want  of  gallantry,  but  I  was  easy  on  that  score. 
As  for  Mr.  Drencher,  she   had  told  me  her  sentiments  regarding 


136  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

him;  "and  tliougli  I  am  considerably  older,  yet,"  thought  I,  "I 
need  not  be  afraid  of  that  rival.  But  when  she  says  yes  1  Oh 
dear!  oh  dear!  Yes  means  Elizabeth— certaiuly,  a  brave  young 
woman — but  it  means  Mrs.  Prior,  and  Gus,  and  Amelia  Jane,  and 
the  whole  of  that  dismal  family."  No  wonder,  with  these  dark 
thoughts  crowding  my  mind,  Mrs.  Bonnington  found  me  absent; 
and,  as  a  comment  upon  some  absurd  reply  of  mine,  said,  "  La ! 
Mr.  Batchelor,  you  must  be  crossed  in  love  ! "  Crossed  in  love  ! 
It  might  be  as  well  for  some  folks  if  they  were  crossed  in  love  ! 
At  my  age,  and  having  loved  madly,  as  I  did,  that  party  in  Dublin, 
a  man  doesn't  take  the  second  fit  by  any  means  so  strongly.  Well ! 
well !  the  die  was  cast,  and  I  was  there  to  bide  the  hazard.  What 
can  be  the  matter?  I  look  pale  and  unwell,  and  had  better  see 
Mr.  D.  Thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington.  I  had  a  violent 
— a  violent  toothache  last  night — yes,  toothache;  and  was  kept 
awake,  thank  you.  And  there's  nothing  like  having  it  out?  and 
Mr.  D.  draws  them  beautifully,  and  has  taken  out  six  of  your 
children's  %  It's  better  now  ;  I  daresay  it  will  be  better  still,  soon. 
I  retire  to  my  chamber  :  I  take  a  book— can't  read  one  word  of  it. 
I  resmne  my  tragedy.     Tragedy  %     Bosh  ! 

I  suppose  Mr.  Drencher  thought  his  yesterday's  patient  would 
be  better  for  a  little  more  advice  and  medicine,  for  he  must  pay 
a  second  visit  to  Shrublands  on  this  day,  just  after  the  row  with 
the  Captain  had  taken  pla(^e,  and  walked  up  to  the  upper  regions, 
as  his  custom  was.  Very  likely  he  found  Mr.  Clarence  bathing  his 
nose  there,  and  prescribed  for  the  injured  organ.  Certainly  he 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Miss  Prior  s  schoolroom  (the  fellow  was 
always  finding  a  pretext  for  entering  thai  apartment),  and  Master 
Bedford  comes  to  me  with  a  woebegone  livid  countenance,  and  a 
"  Ha  !  ha  !  young  Sawbones  is  up  with  her  !  " 

"  So,  my  poor  Dick,"  I  say,  "  I  heard  your  confession  as  I  was 
myself  running  in  to  rescue  Miss  P.  from  that  villain." 

"  My  blood  was  hup,"  groans  Dick,—"  up,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
When  I  saw  that  young  rascal  lay  a  hand  on  her,  I  could  not  help 
flying  at  him.  I  would  have  hit  him  if  he  had  been  my  own  father. 
And^I  could  not  help  saying  what  was  on  my  mind.  It  would 
come  out ;  I  knew  it  would  some  day.  I  might  as  well  wish  for 
the  moon  as  hope  to  get  her.  She  thinks  herself  superior  to  me, 
and  perhaps  she  is  mistaken.  But  it's  no  use ;  she  don't  care  for 
me ;  she  don't  care  for  anybody.  Now  the  words  are  out,  in  course 
I  mustn't  stay  here." 

"  You  may  get  another  place  easily  enough  with  your  character, 
Bedford !  " 

But  he  shook  his  head.     "I'm  not  disposed  to  black  nobody 


I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  137 

else's  boots  no  more.  I  have  another  place.  I  have  saved  a  Lit 
of  money.  My  poor  old  mother  is  gone,  whom  you  used  to  be  so 
kind  to,  Mr.  B.  I'm  alone  now.  Confound  that  Sawbones,  will 
he  never  come  away  1  I'll  tell  you  about  my  plans  some  day,  sir, 
and  I  know  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  help  me."  And  away  goes 
Dick,  looking  the  picture  of  woe  and  despair. 

Presently,  from  the  upper  rooms,  Sawbones  descends.  I  hap- 
pened to  be  standing  in  the  hall,  you  see,  talking  to  Dick.  Mr. 
Drencher  scowls  at  me  fiercely,  and  I  suppose  I  return  him  haughty 
glance  for  glance.     He  hated  me  :  I  him  :  I  liked  him  to  hate  me. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  Mr.^a — Drencher  1  "  I  ask. 

"Trifling  contusion  of  the  nose — brown  paper  and  vinegar," 
says  the  Doctor. 

"  Great  powers  !  did  the  villain  strike  her  on  the  nose  1 "  I  cry 
in  terror. 

"  Her — whom  1 "  says  he. 

"  Oh — ah — yes — indeed  ;  it's  nothing,"  I  say,  smiling.  Tlie 
fact  is  I  had  forgotten  about  Baker  in  my  natural  anxiety  Ibr 
Elizabeth. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  laughing,  sir,"  says  the 
red-haired  practitioner.  "  But  if  you  mean  chart',  Mr.  Batchelor, 
let  me  tell  you  I  don't  want  chaft",  and  I  won't  have  chaff" ! "  and 
herewith  exit  Sawbones,  looking  black  doses  at  me. 

Jealous  of  me,  think  I,  as  I  sink  down  in  a  chair  in  the  morning- 
room,  where  the  combat  had  just  taken  place.  And  so  thou,  too, 
art  fever-caught,  my  poor  physician  !  What  a  foscination  this  giii 
has !  Here's  the  butler  :  here's  the  medical  man :  here  am  I : 
here  is  the  Captain  has  been  smitten — smitten  on  the  nose.  Has 
the  gardener  been  smitten  too,  and  is  the  page  gnawing  his  buttons 
off  for  jealousy,  and  is  Monsieur  Bulkeley  equally  in  love  with  her  ? 
I  take  up  a  review,  aud  think  over  this,  as  I  glance  through  its 
pages. 

As  I  am  lounging  and  reading.  Monsieur  Bulkeley  himself  makes 
his  appearance,  bearing  in  cloaks  and  packages  belonging  to  his 
lady.      "  Have  the  goodness  to  take  tliat  cap  oft',"  I  say  coolly. 

"  You  'ave  the  goodness  to  remember  that  if  hever  I  see  you 
hout  o'  this  'ouse  I'll  punch  your  hugly  'ead  oft',"  says  the  monstrous 
menial.     But  I  poise  my  paper-cutter,  and  he  retires  growling. 

From  despondency  I  pass  to  hope  ;  and  the  prospect  of  marriage, 
which  before  appeared  so  dark  to  me,  assumes  a  gayer  hue.  I 
have  four  hundred  a  year,  and  that  house  in  Devonshire  Street, 
Bloomsbury  Square,  of  which  the  upper  part  will  be  qiiite  big 
enougli  for  us.  If  we  have  children,  tliere  is  Queen  Square  for  them 
to  walk  and  play  in.     Several  genteel  families  I  know,  who  still 


138  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

live  in  the  neighbourhood,  will  come  and  see  my  wife,  and  we  shall 
have  a  comfortable  cosy  little  society,  suited  to  our  small  means. 
The  tradesmen  in  Lamb's  Conduit  Street  are  excellent,  and  the 
music  at  the  Foundling  always  charming.  I  shall  give  up  one  of 
my  clubs.     The  other  is  within  an  easy  walk. 

No :  my  wife's  relations  will  not  plague  me.  Bessy  is  a  most 
sensible  determined  woman,  and  as  cool  a  hand  as  I  know.  She 
will  only  see  Mrs.  Prior  at  proper  (and,  I  trust,  distant)  intervals. 
Her  brothers  and  sisters  will  learn  to  know  their  places,  and  not 
obtrude  upon  me  or  the  company  which  I  keep.  My  friends,  who 
are  educated  peojjle  and  gentlemen,  will  not  object  to  visit  me 
because  I  live  over  a  shop  (my  ground-floor  and  spacious  back 
premises  in  Devonsliire  Street  are  let  to  a  German  toy-warehouse). 
I  shall  add  a  hundred  or  two  at  least  to  my  income  by  my  literary 
labour ;  and  Bessy,  who  has  practised  frugality  all  her  life,  and 
been  a  good  daughter  and  a  good  sistei',  I  know  will  prove  a  good 
wife,  and,  please  Heaven  !  a  good  mother.  Why,  four  hundred  a 
year  plus  two  hundred,  is  a  nice  little  income.  And  my  old 
College  friend,  Wigmore,  who  is  just  on  the  Bench  1  He  will, 
he  must  get  me  a  place — say  three  hundred  a  year.  With  nine 
hundred  a  year  we  can  do  quite  well. 

Love  is  full  of  elations  and  despondencies.  The  future,  over 
whicli  such  a  black  cloud  of  doubt  lowered  a  few  minutes  since, 
blushed  a  sweet  rose-colour  now.  I  saw  myself  happy,  beloved, 
with  a  competence,  and  imagined  myself  reposing  in  the  delightful 
garden  of  Red  Lion  Square  on  some  summer  evening,  and  half-a- 
dozen  little  Batchelors  frisking  over  the  flower-bespangled  grass 
there. 

After  our  little  colloquy,  Mrs.  Bonnington  not  finding  much 
pleasui-e  in  my  sulky  society,  had  gone  to  Miss  Prior's  ]-oom  with 
her  young  folks,  and  as  the  door  of  the  morning-room  opened  now 
and  again,  I  could  hear  the  dear  young  ones  scuttling  about  the 
passages,  where  they  were  playing  at  horses  and  fighting  and  so 
forth.  After  a  while  good  Mrs.  B.  came  down  from  the  schoolroom. 
"Whatever  has  happened,  Mr.  Batchelor?"  she  said  to  me,  in  her 
passage  through  the  morning- room.  "Miss  Prior  is  very  pale  and 
absent.  You  are  very  pale  and  absent.  Have  you  been  courting 
her,  you  nauglity  man,  and  trying  to  supplant  Mr.  Drencher] 
There  now,  you  turn  as  red  as  my  ribbon !  Ah  !  Bessy  is  a  good 
girl,  and  so  fond  of  my  dear  children.  '  Ah,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington,' 
s.'ie  says  to  me — but  of  course  you  won't  tell  Lady  B.  :  it  would 
make  Lady  B.  perfectly  furious.  '  Ah  ! '  says  Miss  P.  to  me,  '  I 
wish,  ma'am,  that  my  little  charges  were  like  their  dear  little  uncles 
and  aunts — so  exquisitely  brought  up  ! '     Pop  again  wished  to  beat 


I   AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  139 

his  uncle,  I  wish — I  wish  Frederick  would  send  that  child  to 
school !  Miss  P,  owns  that  he  is  too  nuich  for  her.  Come, 
children,  it  is  time  to  go  to  dinner."  And,  with  more  of  this 
prattle,  the  good  lady  summons  her  young  ones,  who  descend  from 
the  schoolroom  with  their  nephew  and  niece. 

Following  nephew  and  niece,  comes  demure  Miss  Prior,  to 
whom  I  fling  a  knowing  glance,  which  says,  plain  as  eyes  can 
speak — Do,  Elizabeth,  come  and  talk  for  a  little  to  your  faithful 
Batchelor !  She  gives  a  sidelong  look  of  intelligence,  leaves  a 
parasol  and  a  pair  of  gloves  on  a  table,  accompanies  Mrs.  Bonning- 
ton  and  the  young  ones  into  the  garden,  sees  the  clergyman's  wife 
and  children  disappear  through  the  garden  gate,  and  her  own 
youthful  charges  engaged  in  the  strawberry-beds ;  and,  of  course, 
returns  to  the  morning-room  for  her  parasol  and  gloves,  which  she 
had  forgotten.  There  is  a  calmness  about  that  woman — an  easy 
dauntless  dexterity,  which  frightens  me — ma  2^(iroIe  d'honneitr. 
In  that  white  breast  is  there  a  white  marble  stone  in  place  of  the 
ordinary  cordial  apparatus'?  Under  the  white  velvet  glove  of  that 
cool  hand  are  there  bones  of  cold  steel  ? 

"So,  Drencher  has  again  been  here,  Elizabeth  1"  I  say. 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "  To  see  that  wretched  Captain 
Baker.  The  horrid  little  man  will  die !  He  was  not  actually 
sober  just  now  when  he — when  I — when  you  saw  him.  How  I 
wish  you  liad  come  sooner — to  prevent  that  horrible,  tipsy,  disrepu- 
table quarrel !  It  makes  me  very  very  thoughtful,  Mr.  Batchelor. 
He  will  speak  to  his  mother — to  Mr.  Lovel.  I  shall  have  to  go 
away.     I  know  I  must." 

"  And  don't  you  know  where  you  can  find  a  home,  Elizabeth  ? 
Have  the  words  I  spoke  this  morning  been  so  soon  forgotten  1 " 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Batchelor !  you  spoke  in  a  heat.  You  could  not 
think  seriously  of  a  poor  girl  like  me,  so  friendless  and  ]ioor,  with 
so  many  family  tics.  Pop  is  looking  this  way,  please.  To  a  man 
bred  like  you,  what  can  I  be  1" 

"  You  may  make  the  rest  of  my  life  hajtpy,  Elizabeth  ! "  I 
cry.  "  We  are  friends  of  such  old — old  date,  that  you  know  what 
my  disposition  is." 

"  Oh  !  indeed,"  says  she,  "  it  is  certain  that  there  never  was  a 
sweeter  disposition  or  a  more' gentle  creature."  (Somehow  I  thought 
she  said  the  words  "gentle  creature"  with  rather  a  sarcastic  tone  of 
voice.)  "  But  consider  your  habits,  dear  sir.  I  remember  how  in 
Beak  Street  you  used  to  be  always  giving,  and,  in  spite  of  your 
income,  always  poor.  You  love  ease  and  elegance ;  and  having,  I 
daresay,  not  too  nuicli  for  yourself  now,  Avould  you  encumber  your- 
self with — with  me  and  the  expenses  yi'  a  household  1    I  sliall  always 


140  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

regard  you,  esteem  you,  love  you  as  tlie  best  friend  I  ever  had,  and 
— void  venii'  la  mere  du  vaurien." 

Enter  Lady  Baker.  "Do  I  interrupt  a  tete-a-tete,  pray?" 
she  asks. 

"  My  benefactor  has  known  ine  since  I  was  a  child,  and  be- 
friended me  since  then,"  says  Elizabeth,  with  simple  kindness 
beaming  in  her  look.  "  We  were  just  speaking — I  was  just — ah  ! 
— -telling  him  that  my  uncle  has  invited  me  most  kindly  to  Saint 
Boniface,  whenever  I  can  be  spared ;  and  if  you  and  the  family  go 
to  the  Isle  of  Wight  this  autumn,  perhaps  you  will  intercede  with 
Mr.  Lovel,  and  let  me  have  a  little  holiday.  Mary  will  take  every 
charge  of  the  children,  and  I  do  so  long  to  see  my  dear  aunt  and 
cousins !  And  I  was  begging  Mr.  Batchelor  to  use  his  interest  with 
you,  and  to  entreat  you  to  use  your  interest  to  get  me  leave.  That 
was  what  our  talk  was  about." 

The  deuce  it  was  !  I  couldn't  say  No,  of  course  ;  but  I  protest 
I  had  no  idea  imtil  that  moment  that  our  conversation  had  been 
about  Aunt  and  Uncle  at  Saint  Boniface.  Again  came  the  horrible 
suspicion,  the  dreadful  doubt — the  chill  as  of  a  cold  serpent  cjawl- 
ing  down  my  back — which  had  made  me  pause,  and  gasp,  and  turn 
pale,  anon  when  Bessy  and  Captain  Clarence  were  holding  (lolloquy 
together.  What  has  happened  in  this  woman's  life  1  Do  I  know  all 
about  her,  or  anything ;  or  only  just  as  much  as  she  chooses  1  Oh, 
Batch — Batch  !     I  suspect  you  are  no  better  than  an  old  gaby  ! 

"  And  Mr.  Drencher  has  just  been  here  and  seen  your  son," 
Bessy  continues  softly ;  "  and  he  begs  and  entreats  your  Ladyship 
to  order  Captain  Baker  to  be  more  prudent.  Mr.  D.  says  Captain 
Baker  is  shortening  his  life,  indeed  he  is,  by  his  carelessness." 

There  is  Mr.  Lovel  coming  from  the  City,  and  the  children  are 
running  to  their  papa !  And  Miss  Prior  makes  her  patroness  a 
meek  curtsey,  and  demurely  slides  away  from  the  room.  With  a 
sick  heart  I  say  to  myself,  "  She  has  been — yes — humbugging  is 
the  word^humbugging  Lady  B.  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  can  it  be 
possible  thou  art  humbugging  me  too]" 

Before  Lovel  enters,  Bedford  rapidly  flits  through  the  room. 
He  looks  as  pale  as  a  ghost.     His  face  is  awfully  gloomy. 

"  Here's  the  governor  come,"  Dick  whispers  to  me.  "  It  must 
all  come  hout  now — out,  I  beg  your  pardon.  So  she's  caught  you, 
has  she?     I  thought  she  would."     And  he  grins  a  ghastly  grin. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  ask,  and  I  daresay  turn  rather  red. 

"  I  know  all  about  it.  I'll  speak  to  you  to-night,  sir.  Con- 
found her  !  confound  her  ! "  and  lie  doubles  his  knuckles  into  his 
eves,  and  rushes  out  of  the  room  over  Buttons  entering  with  the 
afternoon  tea. 


I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  141 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter,  and  why  are  you  knocking  the 
things  about  1"  Lovel  asks  at  dinner  of  his  butler,  wliu,  indeed, 
acted  as  one  distraught.  A  savage  gloom  was  depicted  on  Bedfortl's 
usually  melancholy  countenance,  and  the  blunders  in  his  service 
were  many.  With  his  brother-indaw  Lovel  did  not  exchange  many 
words.  Clarence  was  not  yet  forgiven  for  his  escapade  two  days 
previous.  And  when  Lady  Baker  cried,  "  Mercy,  child  !  what  have 
you  done  to  yourself? "  and  the  Captain  replied,  "  Knocked  my  face 
against  a  dark  door — made  my  nose  lileed,"  Lovel  did  not  look  uj) 
or  express  a  word  of  sympathy.  "  If  the  fellow  knocked  his  worth- 
less head  off,  I  should  not  l)e  sorry,"  the  widower  murmured  to  nie. 
Indeed,  the  tone  of  the  Captain's  voice,  his  ton,  and  his  manners 
in  general,  were  especially  odious  to  Mr.  Lovel,  who  could  put  up 
with  the  tyranny  of  women,  but  revolted  against  the  vulgarity  and 
assumption  of  certain  men. 

As  yet  nothing  had  been  said  about  the  morning's  quarrel. 
Here  we  were  all  sitting  with  a  sword  hanging  over  our  heads, 
smiling  and  chatting,  and  talking  cookery,  politics,  the  weather, 
and  what  not.  Bessy  was  perfectly  cool  and  dignified  at  tea. 
Danger  or  doubt  did  not  seem  to  aft'ect  her.  If  she  had  been 
ordered  for  execution  at  the  end  of  the  evening  she  would  have 
made  the  tea,  played  her  Beethoven,  answered  (juestions  in  her 
usual  voice,  and  glided  about  from  one  to  another  Avith  her  usual 
dignified  calm,  until  the  hour  of  decapitation  came,  when  she  would 
have  made  her  curtsey,  and  gone  out  and  had  the  amputation  per- 
formed (juite  quietly  and  neatly.  I  admired  her,  I  was  frightened 
before  her.  The  cold  snake  crept  more  than  ever  down  my  back  as 
I  meditated  on  her.  I  made  such  awful  blunders  at  whist  that 
even  good  Mrs.  Bonnington  lost  her  temper  with  her  fourteen  shil- 
lings. Miss  Prior  would  have  played  her  hand  out,  and  never  made 
a  fault,  you  may  be  sure.  She  retired  at  her  accustomed  hour. 
Mrs.  Bonnington  ha<l  her  glass  of  negus,  and  Avithdrew  too.  Lovel 
keeping  his  eyes  sternly  on  the  Captain,  that  officer  could  only  get 
a  little  sherry  and  seltzer,  and  went  to  bed  sober.  Lady  Baker 
folded  Lovel  in  her  arms,  a  process  to  which  my  poor  friend  very 
humbly  submitted.  Everybody  went  to  bed,  and  no  tales  were 
told  of  the  morning's  doings.  There  was  a  respite,  and  no  execu- 
tion could  take  place  till  to-morrow  at  any  rate.  Put  on  thy  night- 
cap, Damocles,  and  slumber  for  to-night  at  least.  Thy  slumbers 
will  not  be  cut  short  by  the  awful  Chopper  of  Fate. 

Perha})s  you  may  ask  what  need  had  /  to  be  alarmed  ?  Nothing 
could  ha])pen  to  me.  I  Avas  not  going  to  lose  a  governess's  place. 
Well,  if  I  must  tell  the  tnith,  I  had  not  acted  with  entire  candour 
in  the  matter  of  Bessy's  appointment.     In  reconmieuding  her  to 


142  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

Lovel  and  the  late  Mrs.  L.,  I  had  answered  for  her  probity,  and 
so  forth,  with  all  ray  might.  I  had  described  the  respectability  of 
her  family,  her  father's  campaigns,  her  grandfather's  (old  Doctor 
Sargent's)  celebrated  sermons ;  and  had  enlarged  with  the  utmost 
eloquence  upon  the  learning  and  high  character  of  her  uncle,  the 
Master  of  Boniface,  and  the  deserved  regard  he  bore  his  niece.  But 
that  part  of  Bessy's  biography  which  related  to  the  Academy  I  own 
I  had  not  touched  upon.  A  quoi  bon  ?  Would  every  gentleman 
or  lady  like  to  have  everything  told  about  him  or  her?  I  had  kept 
the  Academy  dark  tlien  ;  and  so  had  brave  Dick  Bedford  the  butler  ; 
and  should  that  miscreant  Captain  reveal  the  secret,  I  knew  there 
would  be  an  awful  commotion  in  the  building.  I  should  have 
to  incur  Lovel's  not  unjust  reproaches  for  siqjjjressio  veri,  and  the 
anger  of  those  two  viragines,  the  grandmothers  of  Lovel's  children. 
I  was  more  afraid  of  the  women  than  of  him,  though  conscience 
whispered  me  that  I  had  not  acted  quite  rightly  by  my  friend. 

When,  then,  the  bed-candles  were  lighted,  and  every  one  said 
good-night,  "  Oh  !  Captain  Baker,"  say  I  gaily,  and  putting  on  a 
confoundedly  hypocritical  grin,  "  if  you  will  come  into  my  room,  I 
will  give  you  that  book." 

"  What  book?"  says  Baker. 

"  The  book  we  were  talking  of  this  morning." 

"  Hang  me,  if  I  know  what  you  mean,"  says  he.  And  luckily 
for  me,  Lovel,  giving  a  shrug  of  disgust,  and  a  good-night  to  me, 
stalked  out  of  the  room,  bed-candle  in  hand.  No  doubt,  he  thought 
his  wretch  of  a  brother-in-law  did  not  well  remember  after  dinner 
what  he  had  done  or  said  in  the  morning. 

As  I  now  had  the  Blacksheep  to  myself,  I  said  calmly,  "You 
are  quite  right.  There  was  no  talk  about  a  book  at  all,  Captain 
Baker.  But  I  wished  to  see  you  alone,  and  impress  upon  you  my 
earnest  wish  that  everything  which  occurred  this  morning — mind, 
everything — should  be  considered  as  strictly  private,  and  should  be 
confided  to  no  j^erson  whatever — you  understand  ? — to  no  person." 

"Confound  me,"  Baker  breaks  out,  "if  I  understand  what  you 
mean  by  your  books  and  your  'strictly  private.'  I  shall  speak 
what  I  choose— hang  me  !  " 

"In  that  case,  sir,"  I  said,  "will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
send  a  friend  of  yours  to  my  friend  Captain  Fitzboodle'?  I  must 
consider  the  matter  as  personal  between  ourselves.  You  insulted — 
and,  as  I  find  now,  for  the  second  time — a  lady  whose  relations  to 
me  you  know.  You  have  given  neither  to  her,  nor  to  me,  the 
apology  to  which  we  are  both  entitled.  You  refuse  even  to  promise 
to  be  silent  regarding  a  painful  scene  which  was  occasioned  by 


I    AM    STUNG    BY    A    SERPENT  143 

your  own  brutal  and  cowardly  behaviour ;  and  you  must  abide  by 
the  consequences,  sir  !  you  must  abide  by  the  consequences  !  "  And 
I  glared  at  him  over  my  flat  candlestick. 

"  Curse  me  ! — and  hang  me  ! — and,"  &c.  &c.  &c.  he  says,  "  if 
I  know  what  all  this  is  about.  What  the  dooce  do  you  talk  to  vie 
about  books,  and  about  silence,  and  apologies,  and  sending  Captain 
Fitzboodle  to  me  1  I  don't  want  to  see  Captain  Fitzboodle — great 
fat  l)rute  !     /  know  him  perfectly  well." 

"  Hush  !  "  say  I,  "  here's  Bedford."  In  fact,  Dick  appeared  at 
this  juncture,  to  close  the  house  and  put  the  lamps  out. 

But  Captain  Clarence  only  spoke  or  screamed  louder.  "  What 
do  I  care  about  who  hears  me  %  That  fellow  insulted  me  alreaily 
to-day,  and  I'd  have  pitched  his  life  out  of  him,  only  I  was  down, 
and  I'm  so  confounded  weak  and  nervous,  and  just  out  of  my  fevci- 
— and — and  hang  it  all !  what  are  you  driving  at,  Mr.  What's- 
your-name  % "  And  the  wretched  little  creature  cries  almost  as 
he  s])eaks. 

"  Once  for  all,  will  you  agree  that  the  affair  about  which  we 
spoke  shall  go  no  further  1"  I  say,  as  stern  as  Draco. 

"  I  shan't  say  anythin'  about  it.  I  Avish  you'd  leave  me  alone, 
you  fellows,  and  not  come  botherin'.  I  wish  I  could  get  a  glass 
of  brandy-and-water  up  in  my  bedroom.  I  tell  y(ju  I  can't  slec]) 
without  it,"  whimpers  the  wretch. 

"  Sorry  I  laid  hands  on  you,  sir,"  says  Bedford  sadly.  "  Jt 
Wcisn't  Avorth  the  while.  Go  to  bed,  and  I'll  get  you  something 
warm." 

"Will  you,  though'?  I  couldn't  sleep  without  it.  Do  now — 
do  now  !  and  I  won't  say  anythin' — I  won't  now — on  the  honour 
of  a  gentleman,  I  won't.  Good-night,  Mr.  What-d'ye-call."  And 
Bedford  leads  the  lielot  to  his  chamber. 

"I've  got  him  in  bed;  and  I've  given  him  a  dose;  and  I  put 
some  laudanum  in  it.  He  ain't  been  out.  He  has  not  had  nmcli 
to-day,"  says  Bedford,  coming  back  to  my  room,  with  his  face 
ominously  pale. 

"You  have  given  him  laudanum?"  I  ask. 

"  Smvbones  gave  him  some  yesterday, — told  me  to  give  him  a 
little — forty  drops,"  growls  Bedford. 

Then  the  gloomy  major-domo  puts  a  hand  into  each  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  looks  at  me.  "You  want  to  fight  for  her,  do  you, 
sir?  Calling  out,  and  that  sort  of  game?  Phoo  !  " — and  he  laughs 
scornfully. 

"The  little  miscreant  is  too  despicable,  I  own,"  say  I,  "and  it's 
absurd  for  a  peacealile  fellow  like  mo  to  talk  about  pov/dcr  and 
shot  at  this  time  of  day.     But  what  could  I  do?" 


144 


LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 


"  I  say  it's  she  ain't  worth  it,"  says  Bedford,  lifting  up  both 
clenched  fists  out  of  the  waistcoat  pockets. 

"  Wliat  do  you  mean,  Dick  ?  "  I  ask. 

"  She's  humbugging  you— she's  humbugging  me, — she's  hum- 
bugging everybody,"  roars  Dick.  "  Look  here,  sir  ! "  and  out  of 
one  of  the  clenched  fists  he  flings  a  paper  down  on  the  table. 

"  What  is  it  1"  I  ask.  It's  her  handwriting.  I  see  the  neat 
trim  lines  on  the  paper. 

"  It's  not  to  you  ;  nor  yet  to  me,"  says  Bedford. 

"  Then  how  dare  you  read  it,  sir  1 "  I  ask,  all  of  a  tremble. 

"It's  to  him.  It's  to  Sawbones,"  hisses  out  Bedford.  "Sawbones 
dropt  it  as  he  was  getting  into  his  gig;  and  I  read  it.  /  ain't 
going  to  make  no  bones  about  whether  it's  wrote  to  me  or  not. 
She  tells  him  how  you  aske<l  her  to  marry  you."  ("Ha!")  "  That's 
how  I  came  to  know  it.  And  do  you  know  what  she  calls  you, 
and  what  he  calls  you,^that  castor-hoil  beast?  And  do  you  know 
what  she  says  of  youl  That  you  hadn't  pluck  to  stand  by  her 
to-day.  There,— it's  all  down  under  her  hand  and  seal.  You  may 
read  it,  or  not,  if  you  like.  And  if  poppy  or  mandragora  will 
medicine  you  to  sleep  afterwards,  I  just  recommend  you  to  take  it. 
/  shall  go  and  get  a  drop  out  of  the  Captain's  bottle— I  shall." 

And  he  leaves  me,  and  the  fatal  paper  on  the  table. 

Now,  suppose  you  had  been  in  my  case — would  you,  or  would 
you  not,  have  read  the  paper?  Suppose  tliere  is  some  news — bad 
news — about  the  woman  you  love,  will  you,  or  will  you  not,  hear 
it  ?  Was  Othello  a  rogue  because  he  let  lago  speak  to  liim  ?  There 
was  the  paper.  It  lay  tliere  glimmering  under  the  light,  with  all 
the  house  quiet. 


M' 


CHAPTER  VI 

CECILIA'S  SUCCESSOR 

ONSIEUR  ET  HONORE  LECTEUR !  I  see,  as  perfectly 
as  if  you  were  sitting  opposite  to  me,  the  scorn  depicted  on 
your  noble  countenance  when  you  read  my  confession  that 
I,  Charles  Batchelor,  Esquire,  did  burglariously  enter  the  premises 
of  Edward  Drencher,  Esquire,  M.R. C.S.I,  (phew!  the  odious 
jiestle-grinder,  I  never  could  bear  him  !),  and  break  open,  and  read 
a  certain  letter  his  property.  I  may  have  been  wrong,  but  I  am 
candid.  I  tell  my  misdeeds ;  some  fellows  hold  their  tongues. 
Besides,  my  good  man,  consider  the  temptation,  and  the  horrid 
insight  into  the  paper  which  Bedford's  report  had  already  given  me. 
Would  j/mt  like  to  be  told  that  the  girl  of  your  heart  was  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  it,  had  none  of  her  own,  or  had  given  hers  to 
another  1  I  don't  want  to  make  a  Mrs.  Robin  Gray  of  any  woman, 
and  merely  because  "  her  mither  presses  her  sair  "  to  marry  against 
her  will.  "  If  Miss  Prior,"  thought  I,  "  prefers  this  lint-scraper  to 
me,  ought  I  to  baulk  her  1  He  is  younger,  and  stronger,  certainly, 
than  myself.  Some  people  may  consider  him  handsome.  (By  the 
way,  what  a  remarkable  thing  it  is  about  many  women,  that,  in 
affairs  of  the  heart,  they  don't  seem  to  care  or  understand  whether 
a  man  is  a  gentleman  or  not.)  It  may  be  it  is  my  superior  fortune 
and  social  station  which  may  induce  Elizabeth  to  Avaver  in  her 
choice  between  me  and  my  bleeding,  bolusing,  tooth-drawing  rival. 
If  so,  and  I  am  only  taken  from  mercenary  considerations,  what 
a  pretty  chance  of  subsequent  happiness  does  either  of  us  stand  ! 
Take  the  vaccinator,  girl,  if  thou  preferrest  him  !  I  know  what  it 
is  to  be  crossed  in  love  already.  It's  hard,  but  I  can  bear  it !  I 
ought  to  know,  I  must  know,  I  will  know  what  is  in  that  paper  ! " 
So  saying,  as  I  pace  round  and  round  the  table  where  the  letter  lies 
flickering  white  under  the  midnight  taper,  I  stretch  out  my  hand— 

I  seize  the  paper — I well,  I  own  it — there— yes — I  took  it  and 

I  read  it. 

Or,  rather,  I  may  say,  I  read  that  part  of  it  which  the  IHeeder 
and  blisterer  had  flung  down.  It  was  but  a  fragment  of  a  letter — 
a  fragment — oh  !  how  bitter  to  swallow !     A  lump  of  Epsom  salt 

10 


146  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

could  not  have  been  more  disgusting.  It  appeared  (from  Bedford's 
statement)  that  ^scuUipius,  on  getting  into  liis  gig,  had  allowed 
this  scrap  of  paper  to  whisk  out  of  his  pocket — the  rest  he  read, 
no  doubt,  under  tlie  ej^es  of  the  writer.  Very  likely,  during  the 
perusal,  he  had  taken  and  squeezed  the  false  hand  whicli  wrote  the 
lines.  Very  likely  the  first  part  of  tlie  precious  document  contained 
compliments  to  him — from  the  horrible  context  I  judged  so — com- 
pliments to  that  vendor  of  leeches  and  bandages,  into  whose  heart 
I  daresay  I  wished  ten  thousand  lancets  might  be  stuck,  as  I  per- 
used the  False  One's  wheedling  address  to  him  !  So  ran  the  docu- 
ment. How  well  every  word  of  it  was  engraved  on  my  anguished 
heart !  If  page  three,  which  I  suppose  was  about  the  bit  of  the 
letter  which  I  got,  was  as  it  was — what  must  pages  one  and  two 
have  been  1     The  dreadful  document  began,  then,  thus  : — 

" dear  hair  in  the  locket,  whicli  I  shall  ever  wear  for  the 

sake  of  ?iim  who  gave,  it  " — (dear  hair  !  indeed — disgusting  carrots  ! 
She  should  have  been  ashamed  to  call  it  "dear  hair") — "for  the 
sake  of  him  who  gave  it  and  whose  had  temper  I  shall  pardon, 
because  I  think  in  spite  of  his  faults  he  is  a  little  fond  of  his  poor 
Lizzie  !  Ah,  Edward  !  how  could  you  go  on  so  the  last  time  about 
poor  Mr.  B.  !  Can  you  imagine  that  I  can  ever  have  more  than  a 
filial  regard  for  the  kind  old  gentleman  !  "  (77  etait  question  de  moi, 
ma  p>arole  d'honneur.  I  was  the  kind  old  gentleman  !)  "  I  have 
known  him  since  my  childhood.  He  was  intimate  in  our  family  in 
earlier  and  happier  days ;  made  our  house  his  home ;  and,  I  must 
say,  was  most  kind  to  all  of  us  children.  If  he  has  vanities,  you 
naughty  boy,  is  he  the  only  one  of  his  sex  wlio  is  vain  ?  Can  you 
fancy  that  such  an  old  creature  (an  old  muff,  as  you  call  him, 
you  wicked  satirical  man)  could  ever  make  an  impression  on  my 
heart  %  No,  sir  !  "  (Aha  !  So  I  was  an  old  muff",  was  I  f;  "  Though 
I  don't  wish  to  make  you  vain  too,  or  that  other  people  should  laugh 
at  you,  as  you  do  at  poor  dear  Mr.  B.,  I  think,  sir,  you  need  but 
look  in  your  glass  to  see  that  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  such  a  rival 
as  that.  You  fancy  he  is  attentive  to  me  ?  If  you  looked  only  a 
little  angrily  at  him,  he  would  fly  back  to  London.  To-day,  when 
yi»ur  horrid  little  patient  Aid.  itvefimnQ  to  off"er  to  take  my  hand, 
wlien  I  boxed  his  little  wicked  ears  and  sent  him  spinning  to  the 
end  of  the  room — poor  Mr.  Batch  was  ■s.o  frightened  that  he  did  not 
dan  to  come  into  the  room,  and  I  saw  him  peeping  behind  a  statue 
on  the  lawn,  and  he  would  not  come  in  until  the  servants  arrived. 
Poor  man  !  We  cannot  all  of  us  have  courage  like  a  certain 
Edward,  who  I  know  is  as  hold  as  a  lion.  Nov.-,  sir,  you  must  not 
be  quarrelling  with  tliat  wretched  little  Captain  for  being  rude.     I 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  147 

have  shown  him  that  I  can  very  well  take  care  of  myself.  I  knew 
the  odious  thing  tlie  first  moment  I  set  eyes  on  him,  though  he 
had  forgotten  me.  Years  ago  I  met  him,  and  I  remember  he  was 
equally  riide  and  tips " 

Here  the  letter  was  torn.  Beyond  "  tips  "  it  did  not  go.  But 
that  was  enough,  wasn't  it  1  To  this  woman  I  had  ofl'ered  a  gentle 
and  manly,  I  may  say  a  kind  and  tender  heart- — I  had  offered  four 
hundred  a  year  in  funded  property,  besides  my  house  in  Devonshire 
Street,  Bloomsbury — and  she  preferred  Edward,  forsooth,  at  the  sign 
of  the  Gallipot :  and  may  ten  thousand  pestles  smash  his  brains  ! 

You  may  fancy  what  a  night  I  had  after  reading  that  scrap.  I 
promise  you  I  did  not  sleep  much.  I  heard  the  hours  toll  as  I  kept 
vigil.  I  lay  amidst  shattered  capitals,  broken  shafts  of  the  tumbled 
palace  which  I  had  built  in  imagination — oh  !  how  bright  and 
stately  !  I  sat  amongst  the  ruins  of  my  own  happiness,  surrounded 
by  the  murdered  corpses  of  innocent-visioned  domestic  joys.  Tick — 
tock  !  Moment  after  moment  I  heard  on  the  clock  the  clinking  foot- 
steps of  wakeful  grief  I  fell  into  a  doze  towards  morning,  and 
dreamed  that  I  was  dancing  with  Glorvina,  when  I  woke  with  a 
start,  finding  Bedford  arrived  with  my  shaving-water  and  opening 
the  shutters.     When  he  saw  my  haggard  face  he  wagged  his  head. 

"You  have  read  it,  I  see,  sir,"  says  he. 

"Yes,  Dick,"  groaned  I  out  of  bed,  "I  have  swallowed  it." 
And  I  laughed  I  may  say  a  fiendish  laugh.  "  And  now  I  have 
taken  it,  not  poppy  nor  mandragora,  nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  in 
his  shop  (hang  him  !)  will  be  able  to  medicine  me  to  sleep  for  some 
time  to  come  !  " 

"  She  has  no  heart,  sir.  I  don't  think  she  cares  for  t'other 
chap  much,"  groans  the  gloomy  butler.  "  She  can't,  after  having 
known  us  " — and  my  companion  in  grief,  laying  down  my  hot-water 
jug,  retreats. 

■  I  did  not  cut  any  part  of  myself  with  my  razor.  I  shaved 
quite  calmly.  I  went  to  the  family  at  breakfast.  ]\Iy  imjiression 
is  I  was  sarcastic  and  witty.  I  smiled  most  kindly  at  Miss  Prior 
when  she  came  in.  Nobody  could  have  seen  from  my  outward 
behaviour  that  anything  was  wrong  within.  I  was  an  apple. 
Could  you  inspect  the  w^orm  at  my  core?  No,  no.  Somebody, 
I  think  old  Baker,  complimented  me  on  my  good  looks.  I  was 
a  smiling  lake.  Could  you  see  on  my  placid  surface,  amongst  ray 
sheeny  water-lilies,  that  a  corpse  was  lying  under  my  cool  depths  ] 
"  A  bit  of  devilled  chicken  1 "  "  No,  thank  you.  By  the  way, 
Lovel,  I  think  I  must  go  tn  town  to-day."  "You'll  come  back  to 
dinner,  of  course T'     "Well— no."      "Oh,  stuff"!      You  promised 


148  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

me  to-day  and  to-morrow.  Robinson,  Brown,  and  Jones  are 
coming  to-morrow,  and  you  must  be  here  to  meet  them."  Thus 
we  prattle  on.  I  answer,  I  smile,  I  say,  "Yes,  if  you  please, 
anotlier  cup,"  or,  "  Be  so  good  as  to  hand  the  muffin,"  or  what  not. 
But  I  am  dead.  I  feel  as  if  I  am  under  ground,  and  buried.  Life, 
and  tea,  and  clatter,  and  muffins  are  going  on,  of  course  ;  and 
daisies  spring  and  tlie  sim  shines  on  the  grass  whilst  I  am  luider 
it.  Ah,  dear  me  !  it's  very  cruel  :  it's  very  very  lonely  :  it's  verv^ 
odd  !  I  don't  belong  to  the  world  any  more.  I  have  done  with 
it.  I  am  shelved  away.  But  my  spirit  returns  and  flitters  through 
the  world,  which  it  has  no  longer  anything  to  do  with  :  and  my 
ghost,  as  it  were,  comes  and  smiles  at  my  own  tombstone.  Here 
lies  Charles  Batchelor,  the  Unloved  One.  Oh  !  alone,  alone,  alone  ! 
AVhy,  Fate !  didst  thou  ordain  that  I  should  be  companionless  1 
Tell  me  where  the  Wandering  Jew  is,  that  I  may  go  and  sit 
with  him.  Is  there  any  place  at  a  lighthouse  vacant?  Who 
knows  where  is  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez  ]  Engage  me  a  ship 
and  take  me  there  at  once.  Mr,  R.  Crusoe,  I  think  ]  My  dear 
Robinson,  liave  the  kindness  to  hand  me  over  your  goatskin  cap, 
breeches,  and  umbrella.  Go  home,  and  leave  vie  here.  Would 
you  know  who  is  the  solitariest  man  on  earth  1  That  man  am  I. 
Was  that  cutlet  which  I  ate  at  breakfast  anon,  was  that  lamb 
which  frisked  on  tlie  mead  last  week  (beyond  yon  wall  where  tlie 
unconscious  cucumber  lay  basking  which  was  to  form  his  sauce) — 
I  say  was  that  lamb  made  so  tender  that  I  might  eat  him  1  And 
my  heart,  then  ]  Poor  heart !  wert  thou  so  softly  constituted  only 
that  women  might  stab  thee  ?  So  I  am  a  Muff,  am  I  ]  And  she 
will  always  wear  a  lock  of  his  "  dear  hair,"  will  she  ?  Ha !  ha  ! 
The  men  on  the  omnibus  looked  askance  as  they  saw  me  laugh. 
Tliey  thought  it  was  from  Hanwell,  not  Putney,  I  was  escaping. 
Escape]  Who  can  escape?  I  went  into  London.  I  M^ent  to 
the  Clubs.  Jawkins,  of  course,  was  there ;  and  my  impression  is 
that  he  talked  as  usual.  I  took  another  omnibus,  and  went  back 
to  Putney.  "  I  will  go  back  and  revisit  my  grave,"  I  thought. 
It  is  said  that  ghosts  loiter  about  their  former  haunts  a  good  deal 
when  they  are  first  dead ;  flit  wistfully  among  their  old  friends  and 
comjianions,  and,  I  daresay,  expect  to  hear  a  plenty  of  conversation 
and  friendly  tearful  remark  about  themselves.  But  suppose  they 
return,  and  find  nobody  talking  of  them  at  all  ?  Or  suppose, 
Hamlet  (Pfere,  and  Royal  Dane)  comes  back  and  finds  Claudius  and 
Gertrude  very  comfortable  over  a  piece  of  cold  meat,  or  what  not  1 
Is  the  late  gentleman's  present  position  as  a  ghost  a  very  pleasant 
one  ?  Crow,  Cocks  !  Quick,  Sundawn  !  Open,  Trap-door  !  Allans  : 
it's  best  to  pop  underground  again,     So  I  am  a  Mufij  »ra  1 1     What 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  149 

a  curious  thing  that  walk  up  the  hill  to  the  house  was !  What  a 
different  ])lace  ShruLlands  was  yesterday  to  what  it  is  to-day  ! 
Has  the  sun  lost  its  light,  and  the  flowers  tlu'ir  bloom,  and  the  joke 
its  sparkle,  and  the  dish  its  savour  1  Why,  bless  my  soul !  what 
is  Lizzie  herself — only  an  ordinary  woman — freekled  certainly — 
incorrigibly  dull,  and  without  a  scintillation  of  humour ;  and  you 
mean  to  say,  Cluirles  Batchelor,  that  your  heart  once  beat  about 
that  woman  ?  Under  the  intercepted  letter  of  that  cold  assassin, 
my  heart  had  fallen  down  dead,  irretrievably  dead.  I  remember, 
a  propos  of  the  occasion  of  my  first  death,  that  perpetrated  by 
Glorvina — on  my  second  visit  to  Dublin — with  what  a  strange 
sensation  I  walked  under  some  trees  in  the  Phoenix  Park  beneath 
which  it  had  been  my  custom  to  meet  my  False  One  Number  L 
There  were  the  trees — there  were  the  birds  singing — there  was  the 
bench  on  which  we  used  to  sit — the  same,  but  how  different !  The 
trees  had  a  difterent  foliage,  exqtiisite  amaranthine ;  the  birds  sang 
a  song  paradisiacal ;  the  bench  was  a  bank  of  roses  and  fresh 
flowers,  which  young  Love  twined  in  fragrant  chaplets  around  the 
statue  of  Glorvina.  Roses  and  fresh  flowers  '\  Rheumatisms  and 
flannel-waistcoats,  you  silly  old  man  !  Foliage  and  Song?  0  naniby- 
l)amby  driveller  !  A  statue  1 — a  doll,  thou  twaddling  old  dullard  !— 
a  doll  with  carmine  cheeks,  and  a  heart  stuffed  with  bran — I  say, 
on  the  night  preceding  that  ride  to  and  from  Putney,  I  had  under- 
gone death — in  that  omnibus  I  had  been  carried  over  to  t'other 
side  of  the  Stygian  shore.  I  returned  but  as  a  passionless  ghost, 
remembering  my  life-days,  but  not  feeHng  any  more.  Love  was 
dead,  Elizabeth  !  Why,  the  Doctor  came,  and  partook  freely  of 
lunch,  and  I  was  not  angry.  Yesterday  I  called  him  names,  and 
hated  him,  and  was  jealous  of  him.  To-day  I  felt  no  rivalshij) ; 
and  no  envy  at  his  success  ;  and  no  desire  to  supplant  him.  No — 
I  swear — not  the  slightest  wish  to  make  Elizabeth  mine  if  she 
would.  I  might  have  cared  for  her  yesterday — yesterday  I  had 
a  heart.  Psha  !  my  good  sir  or  madam.  You  sit  by  me  at  dinner. 
Perhaps  you  are  handsome,  and  use  your  eyes.  Ogle  away.  Don't 
baulk  yourself,  pray.  But  if  you  fancy  I  care  a  threepenny-piece 
about  you — or  for  your  eyes^ — or  for  your  bonny  brown  hair— or 
for  your  sentimental  remarks,  sidelong  warbled — or  for  your  praise 
to  (not  of)  my  fiice — or  for  your  satire  behind  my  back — ah  me  ! — 
how  mistaken  you  are  !  Peine  ]ierdue,  ma  chere  dame  !  The  diges- 
tive organs  are  still  iu  good  working  order — but  the  heart !  Caret. 
I  was  perfectly  civil  to  Mr.  Drencher,  and,  indeed,  wonder 
to  think  how  in  my  irritation  I  had  allowed  myself  to  apply 
(mentally)  any  sort  of  disagreeable  ])hrases  to  a  most  excellent 
and  deserving  and  good-looking  young  man,   who  is  beloved  by 


150  LOVEL    THE   WIDOWER 

the  pool',  and  has  won  the  just  confidence  of  an  extensive  circle  ot 
patients.  I  made  no  sort  of  remark  to  Miss  Prior,  except  about 
the  weather  and  tlie  flowers  in  the  garden.  I  was  bland,  easj', 
rather  pleasant,  not  too  high-spirited,  you  imderstand. — No :  I 
vow  you  could  not  have  seen  a  nerve  wince,  or  the  slightest 
alteration  in  my  demeanour.  I  helped  the  two  old  dowagers ;  I 
listened  to  their  twaddle ;  I  gaily  wiped  up  with  my  napkin  three- 
quarters  of  a  glass  of  sherry  which  Popham  flung  over  my  trousers. 
I  would  defy  you  to  know  that  I  had  gone  through  the  ticklish 
operation  of  an  excision  of  the  heart  a  few  hours  previously. 
Heart — pooh  !  I  saw  Miss  Prior's  lip  quiver.  Without  a  word 
between  us,  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  all  was  over  as  regarded 
her  late  humble  servant.  She  winced  once  or  twice.  While 
Drencher  was  busy  with  his  plate,  the  grey  eyes  cast  towards  me 
interjectional  looks  of  puzzled  entreaty.  She,  I  say,  winced ;  and 
I  give  you  my  word  I  did  not  care  a  fig  whether  she  was  sorry, 
or  pleased,  or  happy,  or  going  to  be  hanged.  And  I  can't  give  a 
better  proof  of  my  utter  indifference  about  the  matter,  than  the 
fact  that  I  wrote  two  or  three  copies  of  verses  descriptive  of  my 
despair.  Tliey  appeared,  you  may  perhaps  remember,  in  one  of  the 
annuals  of  those  days,  and  were  generally  attributed  to  one  of  the 
most  sentimental  of  our  young  poets.  I  remember  the  reviews  said 
they  were  "replete  with  emotion,"  "full  of  passionate  and  earnest 
feeling,"  and  so  forth.  Feeling,  indeed ! — ha!  ha!  "  Passionate  out- 
bursts of  a  grief-stricken  heart !  " — Passionate  scrapings  of  a  fiddle- 
stick, my  good  friend.  "Lonely"  of  course  rhymes  with  "only," 
and  "gushes  "with  "blushes,"  and  "despair"  with  "hair,"  and  so 
on.  Despair  is  perfectly  compatible  with  a  good  dinner,  I  promise 
you.  Hair  is  false :  hearts  are  false.  Grapes  may  be  sour,  but 
claret  is  good,  my  masters.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  cry  my 
eyes  out,  because  Chloe's  are  turned  upon  Strephon "?  If  you  find 
any  whimpering  in  mine,  may  they  never  wink  at  a  bee's-wing  again. 

When  the  Doctor  rose  presently,  saying  he  would  go  and  see  the 
gardener's  cliild,  who  was  ill,  and  casting  longing  looks  at  Miss  Prior, 
I  assure  you  I  did  not  feel  a  tittle  of  jealousy,  though  Miss  Bessy 
actually  followed  Mr.  Drencher  on  to  the  lawn,  under  the  pretext 
of  calling  back  Miss  Cissy,  who  had  run  tliither  without  her  bonnet. 

"  Now,  Lady  Baker,  which  was  right  1  you  or  11"  asks  bonny 
Mrs.  Bonnington,  wagging  her  head  towards  the  lawn  where  this 
couple  of  innocents  were  disporting. 

"  You  thought  there  was  an  affair  between  Miss  Prior  and  the 
medical  gentleman,"  I  say,  smiling.  "It  was  no  secret,  Mrs. 
Bonnington." 

"  Yes,  but  there  were  others  who  were  a  little  smitten  in  th^t 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  151 

quarter  too,"  saj'S  Lady  Baker  ;  and  she  in  turn  wags  her  old  liead 
towards  me. 

"  You  mean  me  ? "  I  answer,  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  babe. 
"I  am  a  burnt  child,  Lady  Baker;  I  have  been  at  the  fire,  and  am 
already  thoroughly  done,  thank  you.  One  of  your  charming  sex 
jilted  me  some  years  ago ;  and  once  is  quite  enough,  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you." 

This  I  said,  not  because  it  was  true ;  in  fact,  it  w^as  the  reverse 
of  truth  ;  but  if  I  chose  to  lie  about  my  own  affairs,  pray,  why  not  ? 
And  though  a  strictly  truth-telling  man  generally,  when  I  do  lie,  I 
j)romise  you  I  do  it  boldly  and  well. 

"If,  as  I  gather  from  Mrs.  Bonnington,  Mr.  Drencher  and 
Miss  Prior  like  each  other,  I  wish  my  old  friend  joy.  I  wish 
Mr.  Drencher  joy  with  all  my  heart.  The  match  seems  to  me 
excellent.  He  is  a  deserving,  a  clever,  and  a  handsome  young 
fellow ;  and  I  am  sure,  ladies,  you  can  bear  witness  to  her  goodness, 
after  all  you  have  known  of  Iier." 

"My  dear  Batchelor,"  says  Mrs.  Bonnington,  still  smiling  and 
winking,  "  I  don't  believe  one  single  word  you  say — not  otic  single 
v/ord  ! "     And  she  looks  infinitely  pleased  as  she  speaks. 

"  Oh  !  "  cries  Lady  Baker,  "  my  good  Mrs.  Bonnington,  you 
are  always  match-making  —  don't  contradict  me.  You  know  you 
thought " 

"  Oh,  please  don't,"  cries  Mrs.  B. 

"  I  will.  She  thought,  Mr.  Batchelor,  she  actually  thought 
that  our  son,  that  my  Cecilia's  husband,  was  smitten  by  the 
governess.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him  dare  ! "  and  her  flash- 
ing eyes  turn  towards  the  late  Mrs.  Lovel's  portrait,  with  its  failed 
simper  leering  over  the  harp.  "  The  idea  that  any  woman  could 
succeed  that  angel,  indeed  !  " 

"Indeed,  I  don't  envy  her,"  I  said. 

"You  don't  mean,  Batchelor,  that  my  Frederick  would  not 
make  any  woman  happy  ! ''  cries  the  Bonnington.  "  He's  only 
seven-and-thirty,  very  young  for  his  age,  and  the  most  a  fleet  ion  ate 
of  creatures.  I  am  sur])rised,  and  it's  most  cruel,  and  most  unkind 
of  you,  to  say  that  you  don't  envy  any  woman  that  marries 
my  boy  ! " 

"My  dear  good  Mrs.  Bonnington,  you  (piite  misapprehend  me," 
I  remark. 

"  Why,  when  his  late  wife  was  alive,"  goes  on  Mrs.  B.,  sobbing, 
"you  know  with  what  admirable  sweetness  and  gentleness  he  bore 
her — her — bad  temper — excuse  me,  Lady  Baker  !  " 

"  Oh,  i^ray,  abuse  my  departed  angel  !  "  cries  the  Baker ;  "  say 
that  your  son  should  marry  and  forget  her — say  that  those  darlings 


152  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

should  be  made  to  forget  their  mother.  She  was  a  woman  of  birth, 
and  a  woman  of  breeding,  and  a  woman  of  family,  and  the  Bakers 
came  in  with  the  Conqueror,  Mrs.  Bonnington " 

"  I  think  I  heard  of  one  in  the  Court  of  Pharaoh,"  I  interposed 

"  And  to  say  that  a  Baker  is  not  worthy  of  a  Lovel  is  pretty 
news  indeed  !     Do  you  hear  that,  Clarence  1 " 

"Hear  what,  ma'am?"  says  Clarence,  who  enters  at  this 
juncture.  "  You're  speakin'  loud  enough — though  blesht  if  I  hear 
two  sh-shyllables." 

"  You  wretched  boy,  you  have  been  smoking  !  " 

"  Shmoking — haven't  I?"  says  Clarence  with  a  laugh;  "and 
I've  been  at  the  '  Five  Bells,'  and  I've  been  having  a  game  of 
billiards  with  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  and  he  lurches  towards  a 
decanter. 

"  Ah  !  don't  drink  any  more,  my  child  !  "  cries  the  mother. 

"  I'm  as  sober  as  a  judge,  I  tell  you.  You  leave  so  precious 
little  in  the  bottle  at  dinner,  that  I  must  get  it  when  I  can,  mustn't 
I,  Batchelor,  old  boy  1  We  had  a  row  yesterday,  hadn't  we  'i  No, 
it  was  sugar-baker.  I'm  not  angry— you're  not  angiy.  Bear  no 
malish.     Here's  your  health,  old  boy  ! " 

The  unhappy  gentleman  drank  his  bumper  of  sherry,  and, 
tossing  his  hair  off  his  head,  said — "  Where's  the  governess — where's 
Bessy  Bellenden?     Who's  that  kickin'  me  under  the  table,  I  say  1 " 

"Where  is  who?"  asks  his  mother. 

"  Bessy  Bellenden — the  governess — that's  her  real  name.  Known 
her  these  ten  years.  Used  to  dansh  at  Priush's  Theatre,  Re- 
member her  in  the  corps-de-ballet.  Ushed  to  go  behind  the  shenes. 
Dooshid  pretty  girl ! "  maunders  out  the  tipsy  youth  ;  and  as  the 
unconscious  subject  of  his  mischievous  talk  enters  the  room,  again 
he  cries  out,  "  Come  and  sit  by  me,  Bessy  Bellenden,  I  say  ! " 

The  matrons  rose  with  looks  of  horror  in  their  faces.  "  A  ballet- 
dancer  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Bonnington.  "  A  ballet-dancer  !  "  echoes  Lady 
Baker.     "  Young  woman,  is  this  true  ? " 

"The  Bulbul  and  the  Roshe— hay  1 "  laughs  the  Captain. 
"  Don't  you  remember  you  and  Fosbery  in  blue  and  shpangles  1 
Always  all  right,  though,  Bellenden  was.  Fosbery  washn't :  but 
Bellenden  was.  Give  you  every  credit  for  that,  Bellenden.  Boxsh 
my  ears.  Bear  no  malish — no — no — malish!  Get  some  more 
sherry,  you — whatsh  your  name — Bedford,  butler — and  I'll  pay 
you  the  money  I  owe  you."  And  he  laughs  his  wild  laugh,  utterly 
unconscious  of  the  effect  he  is  producing.  Bedford  stands  staring 
at  him  as  pale  as  death.  Poor  Miss  Prior  is  as  white  as  marble. 
Wrath,  terror,  and  wonder  are  in  the  countenances  of  the  dowagers. 
It  is  an  awful  scene  ! 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  153 

"  Mr.  Batchelor  knows  that  it  was  to  help  my  family  I  did  it," 
says  the  poor  governess. 

"Yes,  by  George!  and  nobody  can  say  a  word  against  her," 
bursts  in  Dick  Bedford,  with  a  sob  ;  "  and  she  is  as  honest  as  any 
woman  here." 

"  Pray,  who  told  you  to  put  your  oar  in  1  "  cries  the  tipsy 
Captain. 

"And  you  knew  that  this  person  was  on  the  stage,  and  you 
introduced  her  into  my  son's  family?  Oh,  Mr,  Batchelor,  Mr. 
Batchelor,  I  didn't  think  it  of  you  !  Don't  speak  to  me,  miss  ! " 
cries  the  flurried  Bonnington. 

"  You  brought  this  woman  to  the  children  of  my  adored  Cecilia  ?  " 
calls  out  the  other  dowager.  "Serpent,  leave  the  room!  Pack 
your  trunks,  viper !  and  quit  the  house  this  instant.  Don't  touch 
her,  Cissy.  Come  to  me,  my  blessing.  Go  away,  you  horrid 
wretch  ! " 

"  She  ain't  a  horrid  wretch ;  and  when  I  was  ill  she  was  very 
good  to  us,"  breaks  in  Pop,  with  a  roar  of  tears  :  "  and  you  shan't 
go,  Miss  Prior — my  dear  pretty  Miss  Prior.  You  shan't  go  !  "  and 
the  child  rushes  up  to  the  governess,  and  covers  her  neck  with  tears 
and  kisses. 

"  Leave  her,  Popham,  my  darling  blessing  ! — leave  that  woman! " 
cries  Lady  Baker. 

"  I  won't,  you  old  beast ! — and  she  sha-a-an't  go.  And  I  wish 
you  was  dead — and,  my  dear,  you  shan't  go,  and  pa  shan't  let 
you  !  "  shouts  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  Popham,  if  Miss  Prior  has  been  naughty,  Miss  Prior  must 
go  !  "  says  Cecilia,  tossing  up  her  head. 

"  Spoken  like  my  daughter's  cliild  !  "  cries  Lady  Baker  :  and 
little  Cissy,  having  flung  her  little  stone,  looks  as  if  slie  had  per- 
formed a  very  virtuous  action. 

"  God  bless  you,  Master  Pop — you  are  a  trump,  you  are  ! " 
says  Mr.  Bedford. 

"  Yes,  that  I  am,  Bedford  ;  and  she  shan't  go,  shall  she  1 "  cries 
the  boy. 

But  Bessy  stooped  down  sadly  and  kissed  him.  "  Yes,  I  must, 
dear,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  touch  him  !  Come  away,  sir  !  Come  away  from  her  this 
moment !  "  shrieked  the  two  mothers. 

"  I  nursed  him  through  the  scarlet  fever,  when  his  own  mother 
would  not  come  near  him,"  says  Elizabeth  gently. 

"I'm  blest  if  she  didn't,"  sobs  Bedford — "and — bub — bub — 
bless  you.  Master  Pop  !  " 

"  That  child  is  wicked  enough,  and  headstrong  enough,  and  rude 


154  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

enough  already  !  "  exclaims  Lady  Baker.  "  I  desire,  young  woman, 
you  ^yill  not  jtoUute  him  furtlier  !  " 

"  That's  a  hard  word  to  say  to  an  honest  woman,  ma'am,"  says 
Bedford. 

"Pray,  miss,  are  you  engaged  to  the  butler,  too?"  hisses  out 
the  doAvager. 

"There's  very  little  the  matter  with  Barnet's  child  —  only 
teeth — —  What  on  earth  has  happened  ?  My  dear  Lizzie — my  dear 
Miss  Prior — what  is  it  1  "  cries  the  Doctor,  who  enters  from  the 
garden  at  this  juncture. 

"  Nothing  has  happened,  only  this  young  woman  has  appeared 
in  a  new  character,"  says  Lady  Baker.  "  My  son  has  just  informed 
us  that  Miss  Prior  danced  upon  the  stage,  Mr.  Drencher ;  and  if 
you  think  such  a  person  is  a  fit  companion  for  your  mother  and 
sisters,  who  attend  a  place  of  Christian  worsliij:),  I  believe — I  wish 
you  joy." 

"  Is  this — is  this — true  ? "  asks  the  Doctor,  with  a  look  of 
bewilderment. 

"Yes,  it  is  true,"  sighs  the  girl. 

"  And  you  never  told  me,  Elizabeth  ?  "  groans  the  Doctor. 

"  She's  as  honest  as  any  woman  here,"  calls  out  Bedford.  "  She 
gave  all  the  money  to  her  family." 

"  It  wasn't  fair  not  to  tell  me.  It  wasn't  fair,"  sobs  the  Doctor. 
And  he  gives  her  a  ghastly  parting  look,  and  turns  his  back. 

"  I  say,  you — -Hi  !  What-d'you-call-'im  ?  Sawbones  !  "  shrieks 
out  Captain  Clarence.  "  Come  back,  I  say.  She's  all  right,  I  say. 
Upon  ray  honour,  now,  she's  all  right." 

"  Miss  P.  shouldn't  have  kept  this  from  me.  My  mother  and 
sisters  are   Dissenters,    and   very   strict.      I   couldn't  ask   a  party 

into  my  family  who  has  been — who  has  been 1  wish  you  good 

morning,"  says  the  Doctor,  and  stalks  away. 

"And  now,  will  you  please  to  get  your  things  ready,  and  go 
tooT'  continues  Lady  Baker.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington,  vou 
think " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  she  must  go  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

"  Don't  go  till  Lovel  comes  home,  miss.  These  ain't  your 
mistresses.  Lady  Baker  don't  pay  your  salary.  If  you  go,  I  go, 
too.  There  ! "  calls  out  Bedford,  and  mumbles  something  in  her 
ear  about  "  the  end  of  the  world." 

"  You  go,  too ;  and  a  good  riddance,  you  insolent  brute ! " 
exclaims  the  dowager. 

"  Oh,  Captain  Clarence  !  you  have  made  a  })retty  morning's 
work,"  I  say. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  dooce  all  the  sherry — all  the  shinty's 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  155 

about,"  says  the  Captain,  playing  witli  the  empty  decanter.  "  Gal's 
a  very  good  gal— })retty  g:d.  If  slie  choosesh  dan^h  shport  her 
family,  why  the  doosh  shouldn't  she  dansh  shport  a  family  1 " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  recommend  this  person  to  do,"  says 
Lady  Baker,  t(jssing  up  her  head.  "  And  now  I  will  thank  ycni  to 
leave  the  room.     Do  you  hearl" 

As  poor  Elizabeth  obeyed  this  order,  Bedford  darted  after  her ; 
and  I  know  ere  she  had  gone  five  steps  he  had  oftered  her  his 
savings  and  everything  he  had.  She  might  have  had  mine  yester- 
day. But  she  had  deceived  me.  She  had  jilayed  fast  and  loose 
with  me.  She  had  misled  me  about  this  Doctor.  I  cciuld  trust 
her  no  more.  My  love  of  yesterday  w^as  dead,  I  say.  That  vase 
was  broken  which  never  could  be  mended.  She  .knew  all  was  over 
between  us.     She  did  not  once  look  at  me  as  she  left  the  room. 

The  two  dowagers — one  of  them,  I  think,  a  little  alarmed  at 
her  victory — left  the  house,  and  for  once  went  away  in  the  same 
barouche.  The  young  maniac  who  had  been  the  cause  of  the 
mischief  staggered  away,  I  know  not  whither. 

About  four  o'clock,  poor  little  Pinhorn,  the  children's  maid, 
came  to  me,  well-nigh  choking  Avitli  tears,  as  she  handed  me  a  letter. 
"  She's  goin'  aAvay — and  she  saved  both  them  cliildren's  lives,  she 
did.  And  she've  wrote  to  you,  sir.  And  Bedford's  a-goin'.  And 
I'll  give  warnin',  I  will,  too ! "  And  the  weeping  handmaiden 
retires,  leaving  me,  perhaps  somewhat  frightened,  with  the  letter 
in  my  hand. 

"Dear  sir,"  she  said — "I  may  write  you  a  line  of  thanks  and 
farewell.  I  shall  go  to  my  mother.  I  shall  soon  find  another 
place.     Poor  Bedford,  who  has  a  generous  heart,  told  me  that  he 

had  given  you  a  letter  of  mine  to  Mr.  D .     I  saw  this  moi-ning 

that  you  knew  everything.  I  can  only  say  now  that  for  all  your 
long  kindnesses  and  friendship  to  my  family  I  am  always  your 
sincere  and  grateful — E.  P." 

Yes :  that  was  all.  I  think  she  tvas  grateful.  But  she  h:;d 
not  been  candid  with  me,  nor  with  the  poor  surgeon.  I  had  no 
anger :  far  from  it :  a  great  deal  of  regard  and  goodwill,  nay 
admiration,  for  the  intrepid  girl  who  had  played  a  long  hard  part 
very  cheerfully  and  bravely.  But  my  foolish  little  flicker  of  love 
had  blazed  up  and  gone  out  in  a  day  ;  I  knew  that  she  never  could 
care  for  me.  In  that  dismal  wakeful  night,  after  reading  the 
letter,  I  had  thought  her  character  and  story  over,  and  seen  to 
what  a  life  of  artifice  and  dissinudation  necessity  had  compelled 
her.  I  did  not  blame  her.  In  such  circumstances,  with  such  a 
family,  how  could  she  be  frank  and  open  1  Poor  thing !  poor 
thing  !     Do  we  know  anybody  1     Ah  !  dear  me,  we  are  most  of  us 


156  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

very  lonely  in  the  world.  You  who  have  any  who  love  you,  cling 
to  thera,  and  thank  God.  I  went  into  the  hall  towards  evening : 
her  poor  trunks  and  packages  Avere  there,  and  the  little  nursery- 
maid weeping  over  them.  Tlie  sight  unmanned  nie ;  and  I  believe 
I  cried  myself.  Poor  Elizabeth  !  And  with  these  small  chests  you 
recommence  your  life's  lonely  voyage !  I  gave  the  girl  a  couple  of 
sovereigns.  Slie  sobbed  a  God  bless  me  !  and  burst  out  crying  more 
desperately  than  ever.     Thou  hast  a  kind  heart,  little  Pinhorn  ! 

"  '  Miss  Prior — to  be  called  for.'  AVhose  trunks  are  these  1 " 
says  Lovel,  coming  from  the  City,  The  dowagers  drove  up  at  the 
same  moment. 

"  Didn't  you  see  us  from  the  omnibus,  Frederick  1 "  cries  her 
Ladyship  coaxingly.      "  We  followed  behind  you  all  the  way  !  " 

"We  were  in  the  barouche,  my  dear,"  remarks  Mrs.  Bonnington 
rather  nervously. 

"Whose  trunks  are  these? — what's  the  matter? — and  what's 
the  girl  crying  for  1 "  asks  Lovel. 

"  Miss  Prior  is  a-going  away,"  sobs  Pinhorn. 

"Miss  Prior  going?  Is  this  your  doing,  my  Lady  Baker? — • 
or  yours,  mother  ? "  the  master  of  the  house  says  sternly. 

"  She  is  going,  my  love,  because  she  cannot  stay  in  tliis  family," 
says  mamma. 

"  That  woman  is  no  fit  companion  for  my  angel's  children, 
Frederick  !  "  cries  Lady  B. 

"  That  person  has  deceived  us  all,  my  love  !  "  says  mamma. 

"  Deceived  ? — how  ?  Deceived  whom  ? "  continues  Mr.  Lovel, 
more  and  more  hotly. 

"  Clarence,  love  !  come  down,  dear !  Tell  Mr.  Lovel  every- 
thing. Come  down  and  tell  him  this  moment,"  cries  Lady  Baker 
to  her  son,  who  at  this  moment  appears  on  tlie  corridor  which  was 
round  tlie  liall. 

"  What's  the  row  now,  pray  ? "  And  Captain  Clarence  descends, 
breaking  his  shins  over  poor  Elizabeth's  trunks,  and  calling  down 
on  them  his  usual  maledictions. 

"Tell  Mr.  Lovel  where  you  saw  that — that  person,  Clarence. 
Now,  sir,  listen  to  my  Cecilia's  brother  !  " 

"  Saw  her — saw  her  in  blue  and  spangles,  in  tlie  '  Rose  and  the 
Bulbul,'  at  the  Prince's  Theatre — and  a  doosid  nice-looking  girl  she 
was  too  !  "  says  the  Captain. 

"  There,  sir  !  " 

"  Tiiere,  Frederick  !  "  cry  the  matrons  in  a  breath. 

"  And  what  then  ?  "  asks  Lovel. 

"  Mercy !    you  ask.   What  then,   Frederick  ?      Do  you  know 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  157 

what  a  theatre  is  ?  Tell  Frederick  what  a  theatre  is,  Mr.  Batchelor, 
and  that  my  graiidcliildreii  ivmsst  not  he  educated  hy " 

"My  grandchildren — my  Cecilia's  children,"  shrieks  the  otliei', 
"must  not  be  pol-luted  by- " 

"  Silence  !  "  I  say.  "  Have  you  a  word  against  her — have  you, 
pray.  Baker?" 

"No.  'Gad!  I  never  said  a  Avord  against  her,"  says  the 
Captain.      "  No,  hang  nie,  you  know — but " 

"But  suppose  I  knew  the  fact  the  whole  time?  "asks  Lovel, 
with  rather  a  l)lush  on  his  cheek.  "  Sujipose  I  knew  that  she 
danced  to  give  her  family  brca<l  ?  Suppose  I  knew  that  she  toiled 
and  laboured  to  support  her  parents,  and  brothers  and  sisters? 
Suppose  I  know  that  out  of  her  pittance  she  has  continued  to  sup- 
port them  ?  Suppose  I  know  that  she  watched  n)y  own  children 
through  fever  and  danger?  For  these  reasons  I  must  turn  her 
out  of  doors,  must  I?  No,  by  Heaven  !  No  !— Elizabeth  !— Miss 
Prior  ! — Come  down  ! — Come  here,  I  beg  you  !  " 

The  governess,  arrayed  as  for  dei)arture,  at  this  moment  appeared 
on  the  corridor  running  njund  the  hall.  As  Lovel  continued  to  speak 
very  loud  and  resolute,  she  came  down  looking  deadly  pale. 

Still  much  excited,  the  widower  went  up  tt)  her  and  took  her 
hand.  "Dear  Miss  Prior!"  he  said— "dear  Elizabeth  !  you  have 
been  the  best  fricTid  of  me  and  mine.  You  tended  my  wife  in  illness, 
you  took  care  of  my  children  in  fever  and  danger.  You  have  been 
an  admirable  sister,  daughter  in  your  own  family^and  for  this,  and 
for  these  benefits  conferred  upon  us,  my  relatives—  my  motlier-in-law 
— would  drive  you  out  of  my  doors  !  It  shall  not  be  ! — bv  heavens, 
it  shall  not  be  !  " 

You  should  have  seen  little  Bedford  sitting  on  the  governess's 
box,  shaking  his  fist,  and  crying  "Hurrah  !"  as  his  master  spoke. 
By  this  time  the  loud  voices  and  the  altercation  in  the  hall  had 
brought  a  half-dozen  of  servants  from  tlieir  quarters  into  the  hall. 
"Go  away,  all  of  you!"  shouts  Lovel;  and  the  domestic /losse 
retires,  Bedford  being  the  last  to  retreat,  and  ntxlding  approval  at 
his  master  as  he  backs  out  of  the  room. 

"  You  are  very  good,  and  kind,  and  generous,  sii-,"  says  the  pale 
Elizal)eth,  i)utting  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  But  without  the 
confidence  of  these  ladies,  I  must  not  stay,  Mr.  Lovel.  God  bless 
you  for  your  goodness  to  me.  I  must,  if  you  please,  return  to  my 
mother." 

The  worthy  gentleman  looked  fiercely  round  at  the  two  elder 
women,  and  again  seizing  the  governess's  hand,  said — "  Elizabeth  ! 
dear  Elizabeth !  I  implore  you  not  to  go !  If  you  love  the 
children : " 


158  LOVEL    THE    AVIDOWER 

"  Oil,  sir  !  "  (A  cambric  veil  covers  Miss  Prior's  emotion,  and 
tlie  expression  of  licr  face,  on  tliis  ejaculation.) 

"  If  you  love  the  children,"  gasps  out  the  Avidower,  "  stay  with 
them.  If  you  have  a  regard  for — for  their  father" — (Timanthes, 
where  is  thy  pocket-handkerchief?) — "remain  in  this  house,  with 
such  a  title  as  none  can  question.     Be  the  mistress  of  it." 

"His  mistress — and  before  me  !  "  screams  Lady  Baker.  "  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  this  depravity  is  monstrous  !  " 

"  Be  my  wife,  dear  Elizabeth ! "  the  widower  continues. 
"  Continue  to  watch  over  the  children,  who  shall  be  motherless 
no  more." 

"  Frederick  !  Frederick  !  haven't  they  got  us?  "  shrieks  one  of  the 
old  ladies. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  dear  Lady  Baker  !  "  says  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  "  says  Lady  Baker. 

"  Frederick,  listen  to  your  mother,"  implores  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

"  To  your  mothers,"  sobs  Lady  Baker. 

And  they  both  go  down  on  their  knees,  and  I  heard  a  boohoo  of 
a  guffaw  behind  the  green-baized  servants'  door,  where  I  have  no 
doubt  Monsieur  Bedford  was  posted. 

"  Ah,  Batchelor  !  dear  Batchelor,  speak  to  him  ! "  cries  good 
Mrs.  Bonny.  "  We  are  praying  this  child,  Batchelor — this  child 
whom  you  used  to  know  at  College,  and  when  he  was  a  good  gentle 
obedient  boy.  You  have  influence  with  my  poor  Frederick.  Exert 
it  for  his  heartbroken  mother's  sake  ;  and  you  shall  have  my  bubble- 
ubble-essings,  you  shall." 

"  My  dear  good  lady,"  I  exclaim — not  liking  to  see  the  kind  soul 
in  grief. 

"  Send  for  Doctor  Straightwaist  !  Order  him  to  pause  in  his 
madness,"  cries  Baker ;  "or  it  is  I,  Cecilia's  mother,  the  mother  of 
that  murdered  angel,  that  sliall  go  mad." 

"Angel?  Allons  I "  I  any.  "Since  his  widowhood,  you  have 
never  given  the  poor  fellow  any  peace.  You  have  been  for  ever 
quarrelling  with  him.  You  took  possession  of  his  house;  bullied 
his  servants ;  spoiled  his  children — you  did.  Lady  Baker." 

"  Sir,"  cries  her  Ladyship,  "  you  are  a  low,  presuming,  vulgar 
man  !     Clarence,  beat  this  rude  man  I  " 

"  Nay,"  I  say,  "  there  must  be  no  more  quarrelling  to-day.  And 
I  am  sure  Captain  Baker  will  not  molest  me.  Miss  Prior,  I  am 
delighted  that  my  old  friend  should  have  found  a  woman  of  good 
sense,  good  conduct,  good  temper — a  woman  who  has  had  many  trials, 
and  borne  them  with  very  great  patience — to  take  charge  of  him,  and 
make  him  happy.  I  congratulate  you  both.  Miss  Prior  has  borne 
poverty  so  well  that  I  am  certain  she  will  bear  good  fortune,  for  it 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  159 

is  good  fortune  to  become  the  w'lk  of  such  a  loyal,  honest,  kindly 
gentleman  as  Frederick  Lovel." 

After  such  a  speech  as  that,  I  think  I  may  say,  Uheravi 
animam.  Not  one  word  of  com])laint,  yon  see,  not  a  hint  ahout 
"  Edward,"  not  a  single  sarcasm,  though  I  might  have  launched 
some  terrific  shots  out  of  my  quiver,  and  have  made  Lovel  and  his 
bride-elect  writlie  before  me.  But  what  is  the  need  of  spoiling 
sport  1  Shall  I  growl  out  of  my  sulky  manger  because  my  comrade 
gets  the  meat  1  Eat  it,  happy  dog  !  and  be  thankfid.  Would  not 
that  bone  have  choked  me  if  I  had  tried  if?  Besides,  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  disappointment.  Other  fellows  get  the  i)rizes  which  I  try 
for.  I  am  used  to  run  second  in  the  dreary  race  of  love.  Second  1 
Psha !  Third,  Fourth.  Que  sais-je .?  Tliere  was  the  Bombay 
captain  in  Bess's  early  days.  There  was  Edward.  Here  is 
Frederick.  Go  to,  Charles  Batchelor ;  repine  not  at  fortune  :  but 
be  content  to  be  Batchelor  still.  ]\Iy  sister  has  chililren.  I  will  be 
an  uncle,  a  parent  to  them.  Isn't  Edwanl  of  the  scarlet  whiskers 
distanced  1  Has  not  poor  iJick  Bedfoi'd  lost  the  race — poor  Dick, 
wlio  never  had  a  chance,  and  is  the  best  of  us  all "?  Besides,  what 
fun  it  is  to  see  Lady  Baker  deposed  :  think  of  Mrs.  Prior  coming 
in  and  reigning  over  her !  Tlie  purjile-faced  old  iury  of  a  Baker, 
never  will  she  bully,  and  rage,  and  trami)lc  more.  She  must  pack 
up  lier  traps  and  l)e  off.  I  know  she  must.  I  can  congratulate 
Lovel  sincerely,  and  tliat's  the  fact. 

And  here  at  this  very  moment,  and  as  if  to  add  to  the  comicality 
of  the  scene,  who  should  appear  but  mother-in-law  No.  2,  Mrs. 
Prior,  with  her  Bluecoat  boy,  and  two  or  three  of  her  children, 
who  had  been  invited,  or  had  invited  themselves,  to  drink  tea  with 
Lovel's  young  ones,  as  their  custom  was  whenever  they  could  pro- 
cure an  invitation.  Master  Prior  had  a  fine  "  copy "  under  his 
arm,  which  he  came  to  show  to  his  patron  Lovel.  His  mamma, 
entirely  ignorant  of  what  had  hapx)ened,  came  fawning  in  with  her 
old  poke-bonnet,  her  old  jiockct,  that  vast  depository  of  all  sorts  of 
stores,  her  old  umbrella,  and  her  usual  dreary  smirk.  Slie  made 
her  obeisance  to  the  matrons, — she  led  up  her  Bluecoat  boy  to  Mr. 
Lovel,  in  whose  office  she  hoped  to  find  a  clerk's  j)]ace  for  her  lad, 
on  whose  very  coat  and  waistcoat  she  liad  designs  whilst  they  were 
yet  on  his  back  :  and  she  straightway  began  business  with  the 
dowagers — 

"  My  Lady,  I  hope  your  Lailyship  is  (luitewell?"  (a  curtsey). 
"Dear  kind  Mrs.  Bonnington  !  I  came  to  pay  my  duty  to  you, 
mum.  This  is  Louisa,  my  Lady,  the  great  girl  for  Avhom  your 
Ladyship  so  kindly  jn'omised  the  gown.  And  this  is  my  little  girl, 
Mrs.  Bonnington,  mum,  please  j  and  tliis  is  my  big  Blue.     Go  and 


160  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWKE 

speak  to  dear  kind  Mr.  Lovel,  Gns,  our  dear  good  friend  and  pro- 
tector,— tlie  son  and  son-in-law  of  tiiese  dear  ladies.  Look,  sir,  he 
has  brought  his  copy  to  show  you ;  and  it's  creditable  to  a  boy  of 
his  age,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Bat(;lielor  1  You  can  say,  who  know  so  well 
what  writing  is,  and  my  kind  services  to  you,  sir — and — Elizabeth, 
Lizzie,  my  dear  !  where's  your  spectacles,  you — you- " 

Here  she  stopped,  and  looking  alarmed  at  the  grouj),  at  the 
boxes,  at  the  blushing  Lovel,  at  the  pale  countenan(^e  of  the 
governess,  "Gracious  goodness!"  she  said,  "what  has  hai)i)ened? 
Tell  me,  Lizzie,  what  is  it  1 " 

"  Is  this  collusion,  pray  1 "  says  ruffled  Mrs.  Bonnington. 

"  Collusion,  dear  Mrs.  Bonnington  1 " 

"  Or  insolence  1 "  bawls  out  my  Lady  Baker. 

"Insolence,  your  Ladyship?  What— what  is  it?  What  are 
these  boxes — Lizzie's  boxes  1  Ah  !  "  the  mother  broke  out  with  a 
scream,  "  you've  not  sent  the  poor  girl  away  1  Oh  !  my  poor  child 
— my  poor  children  !  " 

"  The  Prince's  Theatre  has  come  out,  Mrs.  Prior,"  here  said  I. 

The  mother  clasps  her  meagre  hands.  "  It  wasn't  the  darling's 
fault.  It  was  to  help  her  poor  fether  in  poverty.  It  was  I  who 
forced  her  to  it.  Oh,  ladies  !  ladies  !— don't  take  the  bread  out  of 
the  mouth  of  these  i)oor  orphans  ! " — and  genuine  tears  rained  down 
her  yellow  cheeks. 

"Enough  of  this,"  says  Mr.  Lovel  haughtily.  "Mrs.  Prior, 
your  daughter  is  not  going  away.  Elizabeth  has  promised  to  stay 
with  me,  and  never  to  leave  me — as  governess  no  longer,  but 
iis "  and  here  he  takes  Miss  Prior's  hand. 

"His  wife  !  Is  this — is  this  true,  Lizzie?"  gasped  the  mother. 
*      "  Yes,  mamma,"  meekly  said  Miss  Elizabeth  Prior. 

At  this  the  old  woman  flung  down  her  umbrella,  and  uttering  a 
fine  scream,  folds  Elizabeth  in  her  arms,  and  then  runs  up  to  Lovel ! 
"  My  son  !  my  son  !  "  says  she  (Lovel's  face  was  not  bad,  I  promise 
you,  at  this  salutation  and  salute).  "  Come  here,  children  ! — come, 
Augustus,  Fanny,  Louisa,  kiss  your  dear  brother,  children  !  And 
where  are  yours,  Lizzie  ?  Where  are  Pop  and  Cissy  ?  Go  and  look 
for  your  little  nephew  and  niece,  dears  :  Pop  and  Cissy  in  the 
schoolroom,  or  in  the  garden,  dears.  They  will  be  your  nephew 
and  niece  now.     Go  and  fetch  them,  I  say." 

As  the  young  Priors  filed  off",  Mrs.  Prior  turned  to  the  two 
other  matrons,  and  spoke  to  them  with  much  dignity  :  "  Most  hot 
weather,  your  Ladyship,  I'm  sure  !  Mr.  Bonnington  must  find  it 
very  hot  for  preaching,  Mrs.  Bonnington  ?  Lor' !  tliere's  tliat  little 
wretch  beating  my  Johnny  on  the  stairs.  Have  done.  Pop,  sir! 
How  ever  shall  we  make  those  children  agree,  Elizabeth  1 " 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  l6l 

Quick,  come  to  me,  some  skilful  delineator  of  the  British 
dowager,  and  draw  me  the  countenances  of  Lady  Baker  and  Mrs. 
Bonnington. 

"  I  call  this  a  jolly  game,  don't  you,  Batchelor,  old  boy  1 " 
remarks  the  Captain  to  me.  "  Lady  Baker,  my  dear,  I  guess  your 
Ladyship's  nose  is  out  of  joint." 

"  0  Cecilia — Cecilia  !  don't  you  shudder  in  your  grave  1 "  cries 
Lady  B.  "  Call  my  people,  Clarence — call  Bulkeley— call  my 
maid  !  Let  me  go,  I  say,  from  tliis  house  of  horror ! "  and  tlie 
old  lady  dashed  into  the  drawing-room,  where  she  uttered  I  know 
not  what  incoherent  shrieks  and  appeals  before  that  calm,  glazed, 
simpering  portrait  of  the  departed  Cecilia. 

Now  this  is  a  truth;  for  which  I  call  Lovel,  his  lady,  Mrs. 
Bonnington,  and  Captain  Clarence  Baker  as  witnesses.  Well,  then, 
whilst  Lady  B.  was  adjuring  the  portrait,  it  is  a  fact  that  a  string 
of  Cecilia's  harp — which  has  always  been  standing  in  the  corner  of 
the  room  under  its  shroud  of  Cordovan  leather — a  string,  I  say,  of 
Cecilia's  harp  cracked,  and  went  off  witli  a  loud  bong,  which  struck 
terror  into  all  beholders.  Lady  Baker's  agitation  at  the  incident 
was  awful ;  I  do  not  like  to  describe  it — not  having  any  wish  to 
say  anything  tragic  in  this  narrative— though  that  I  can  write 
tragedy,  plays  of  mine  (of  which  envious  managers  never  could  be 
got  to  see  the  merit)  I  think  will  prove,  when  they  appear  in  my 
posthumous  works. 

Baker  has  always  averred  that  at  the  moment  when  the  harp- 
string  broke,  her  heart  broke  too.  But  as  she  lived  for  many  years, 
and  may  be  alive  now  for  what  I  know ;  and  as  she  borrowed 
money  repeatedly  from  Lovel — he  must  be  acquitted  of  the  charge 
which  she  constantly  brings  against  him  of  hastening  her  own  death, 
and  murdering  his  first  wife  Cecilia.  "  The  harp  that  once  in  Tara's 
halls "  used  to  make  such  a  piteous  feeble  thrumming,  has  been 
carted  off  I  know  not  whither ;  and  Cecilia's  portrait,  though  it 
has  been  removed  from  the  post  of  honour  (where,  you  conceive, 
under  present  circumstances  it  would  hardly  be  a  proj)os),  occupies 
a  very  reputable  position  in  the  pink  room  upstairs  which  that  poor 
young  Clarence  inhabited  during  my  visit  to  Shrublands. 

All  the  house  has  been  altered.  There's  a  fine  organ  in  the 
hall,  on  which  Elizabetli  jierforms  sacred  music  very  finely.  As  for 
mj/  old  room,  I  will  trouble  you  to  smoke  there  under  the  present 
government.  It  is  a  library  now,  with  many  fine  and  authentic 
pictures  of  the  Lovel  family  hanging  up  in  it,  the  English  branch  of 
the  house  with  the  wolf  crest,  and  Gave  a  la  loicve  for  the  motto, 
and  a  grand  posthumous  portrait  of  a  Portuguese  oflficer  (Gandish), 
Elizabeth's  late  father. 
11 


162  LOVEL    THE    WIDOWER 

As  for  dear  old  Mrs.  Bennington,  she,  you  may  be  sure,  would 
be  easily  reconciled  to  any  live  mortal  wlio  was  kind  to  her,  and 
any  plan  which  should  make  her  son  happy ;  and  Elizabeth  has 
quite  won  her  over.  Mrs.  Prior,  on  the  deposition  of  the  other 
dowagers,  no  doubt  expected  to  reign  at  Shrublands,  but  in  this 
object  I  am  not  very  sorry  to  say  was  disappointed.  Indeed,  I  was 
not  a  little  amused,  upon  the  very  first  day  of  her  intended  reign — 
that  eventful  one  of  which  we  have  been  describing  the  incidents — 
to  see  how  calmly  and  gracefully  Bessy  pulled  the  throne  from 
under  her,  on  which  the  old  lady  was  clambering. 

Mrs.  P.  knew  the  house  very  well,  and  everything  which  it  con- 
tained ;  and  when  Lady  Baker  drove  off  with  her  son  and  her  suite 
of  domestics.  Prior  dashed  tlirough  the  vacant  apartments  gleaning 
what  had  been  left  in  tlie  flurry  of  departure — a  scarlet  feather  out 
of  the  dowager's  room,  a  shirt-stud  and  a  bottle  of  hair-oil,  the 
Captain's  property.  "  And  now  they  are  gone,  and  as  you  can't  be 
alone  with  him,  my  dear,  I  must  be  with  you,"  says  she,  coming 
down  to  her  daughter. 

"  Of  course,  mamma,  I  nuist  be  with  you,"  says  obedient 
Elizabeth. 

"And  there  is  the  pink  room,  and  the  blue  room,  and  the 
yellow  room  for  the  boys — and  the  chintz  boudoir  for  me — I  can 
put  them  all  away,  oh,  so  comfortably  !  " 

"  I  can  come  and  sliare  Louisa's  room,  mamma,"  says  Bessy. 
"  It  will  not  be  proper  for  me  to  stay  here  at  all — until  afterwards, 
you  know.  Or  I  can  go  to  my  uncle  at  Saint  Boniface.  Don't  you 
think  that  will  be  best,  eh,  Frederick?" 

"  Whatever  you  wish,  my  dear  Lizzie  !  "  says  Lovel, 

"  And  I  daresay  there  will  be  some  little  alterations  made  in  tlie 
house.  You  talked,  you  know,  of  painting,  Mr.  Lovel :  and  the  chil- 
dren can  go  to  their  grandmamma  Bonnington.  And  on  our  return 
when  the  alterations  are  made  we  sliall  always  be  delighted  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Batchelor — our  kindest  old  friend.     Shall  we  not,  Frederick  1 " 

"  Always,  always,"  said  Frederick. 

"  Come,  children,  come  to  your  teas,"  calls  out  Mrs.  P.  in  a 
resolute  voice. 

"  Dear  Pop,  I'm  not  going  away — that  is,  only  for  a  few  days, 
detir,"  says  Bessy,  kissing  the  boy  ;  "and  you  will  love  me,  won't 
your' 

"All  right,"  says  the  boy.  But  Cissy  said,  when  the  same 
appeal  was  made  to  her  :  "  I  shall  love  ray  dear  mamma ! "  and 
makes  her  new  mother-in-law  a  very  polite  curtsey. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  put  off  those  men  you  expect  to  dinner 
to-morrow,  Fred,"  I  say  to  LoveL 


CECILIA'S    SUCCESSOR  l63 

"I  think  I  had,  Batch,"  .sa.y.s  the  sontlenian. 

"  Or  you  can  dine  with  them  at  the  Club,  you  know,"  remarks 
Elizabeth'. 

"Yes,  Bessy." 

"And  when  the  children  have  had  their  tea  I  will  go  with 
niannna.     My  boxes  are  ready,  you  know,"  says  arch  Bessy. 

"And  you  will  stay  and  dine  with  Mr.  Lovel,  won't  Vdu,  ]\Ir. 
Batchelor  1 "  asks  the  lady. 

It  was  the  dreariest  dinner  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  Ko  under- 
taker could  be  more  gloomy  tlmn  Bedford,  as  he  served  us.  We 
tried  to  talk  jjolitics  and  literature.  We  drank  too  much,  purposely. 
Nothing  would  do.  "Hang  me,  if  I  can  stand  this,  Lovel,"  I  said, 
as  we  sat  mum  over  our  third  bottle.  "  I  will  go  back  and  sleeji 
at  my  cliambers.  I  was  not  a  little  soft  upon  her  myself,  that's 
the  truth.  Hei'e's  her  health,  and  happiness  to  both  of  you,  with 
all  my  heart."  And  we  drained  a  great  bumper  apiece,  and  I  lelt 
him.     He  was  very  happy  I  should  go. 

Bedford  stood  at  the  gate,  as  the  little  pony  carriage  came  for 
me  in  the  dusk.  "  God  bless  you,  sir  !  "  says  he.  "  I  can't  stand 
it ;  I  shall  go  too."     And  he  rubbed  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 

He  married  Mary  Pinhorn,  and  they  have  emigrated  to  Mel- 
bourne ;  whence  he  sent  me,  tliree  years  ago,  an  affectionate  lettei', 
and  a  smart  gold,  pin  from  the  diggings. 

A  month  afterwards,  a  cab  might  liave  been  seen  driving  fiom 
the  Temple  to  Hanover  Square  :  and  a  month  and  a  day  after 
that  drive,  an  advertisement  might  have  been  read  in  the  Fast  and 
Times : — 

"Married,  on  Thursday,  10th,  at  St.  Geoi-ge's,  Hanover  Square, 
by  the  Reverend  the  Master  of  Saint  Boniface  College,  Oxbridge, 
uncle  of  the  bride,  Frederick  Lovel,  Esquire,  of  Shrublands,  Roe- 
hampton,  to  Elizabeth,  eldest  daughter  of  the  late  Captain  Montagu 
Prior,  K.S.F." 

We  may  hear  of  Lovel  Married  some  other  day,  but  here  is 
an  en<l  of  Lovel  the  Widoaver.  Valete  et  xil'^udite,  you  good 
people,  who  have  witnessed  the  little  comedy.  Down  with  the 
curtain ;  cover  up  the  boxes  ;  pop  out  the  gas-lights.  Ho  !  cab  ! 
Take  us  home,  and  let  us  have  some  tea,  and  go  to  bed.  Good- 
night, my  little  players.  We  have  been  merry  together,  and  we 
part  with  soft  hearts  and  somewhat  rueful  countenances,  don't  we  % 


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R(3UNDAB0UT    PAPEUS 


ON  A   LAZY  IDLE  BOY 


I  HAD  occasion  to  pass  a  week  in  the  autumn  in  the  little  old 
town  of  Coire  or  Chur,  in  tlie  Grison.s,  where  lies  buried  that 
very  ancient  British  king,  saint,  and  martyr,  Lucius,*  who 
founded  tlie  Church  of  Saint  Peter,  on  Cornhill.  Few  people  note 
the  church  noM'adays,  and  fewer  ever  heard  of  the  saint.  In  the 
cathedral  at  Chur,  his  statue  appears  surrounded  by  other  sainted 
persons  of  his  fondly.  With  tiglit  red  breeches,  a  Roman  habit,  a 
curly  brown  beard,  and  a  neat  little  gilt  crown  and  sceptre,  he  stands, 
a  very  comely  and  cheerful  image  :  and,  from  what  I  may  call  his 
peculiar  position  with  regard  to  Cornhill,  I  beheld  this  figure  of 
Saint  Lucius  with  more  interest  than  I  should  have  bestowed  upon 
personages  who,  hierarchically,  are,  I  daresay,  his  superiors. 

The  pretty  little  city  stands,  so  to  speak,  at  the  end  of  the 
Avorld — of  the  world  of  to-day,  the  world  of  rapid  motion,  and 
rushing  railways,  and  the  commerce  and  intercourse  of  men.  From 
the  northern  gate,  the  iron  road  stretches  away  to  Zurich,  to  Basle, 
to  Paris,  to  home.  From  tlie  old  southern  barriers,  before  which  a 
little  river  rushes,  and  around  which  stretch  the  crumbling  battle- 
ments of  the  ancient  town,  the  road  bears  the  slow  diligence  or  lagging 
vetturino  by  tlie  shallow  Rhine,  through  the  awful  gorges  of  the  Via 
Mala,  and  presently  over  the  Spliigen  to  the  shores  of  Como. 

I  have  seldom  seen  a  place  more  quaint,  pretty,  calm,  and 
pastoral  than  this  remote  little  Chur.  What  need  have  the  inhabi- 
tants of  walls  and  ramparts,  except  to  build  summer-houses,  to  trail 

*  Stow  quotes  the  inscription,  still  extant,  "from  the  table  fast  chained  in 
St.  Peter's  Church,  Cornhill  ;"  and  says,  "he  was  after  some  chronicle  buried 
at  Lon(h)n,  and  after  some  chronicle  buried  at  Glowcester" — but,  oh!  these 
incorrect  chroniclers  !  when  Alban  Butler,  in  the  "  Lives  of  the  Saints,"  v.  xii., 
nnd  Murray's  "Handbook,"  and  the  Sacristan  at  Chur,  all  say  Lucius  was 
killed  there,  and  I  saw  his  tomb  with  my  own  eyes  ! 


IGS  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

vines,  and  hang  clothes  to  dry  on  them  1  No  enemies  approach  the 
great  mouldering  gates :  only  at  morn  and  even  the  cows  come 
lowing  past  them,  the  village  maidens  chatter  merrily  round  the 
fountains,  and  babble  like  the  ever-voluble  stream  that  flows  under 
tlie  old  walls.  The  sclioolboys,  witli  book  and  satchel,  in  smart 
uniforms,  march  up  to  the  gymnasium,  and  return  thence  at  their 
stated  time.  There  is  one  coffee-house  in  the  town,  and  I  see  one 
old  gentleman  goes  to  it.  Thei-e  are  shops  with  no  customers 
seemingly,  and  the  lazy  tradesmen  look  out  of  their  little  windows 
at  the  single  stranger  sauntering  by.  There  is  a  stall  with  baskets 
of  queer  little  black  grapes  and  apples,  and  a  pretty  brisk  trade 
with  half-a-dozen  urchins  standing  round.  But,  beyond  this,  there 
is  scarce  any  talk  or  movement  in  the  street.  There's  nobody  at 
the  book-shop.  "  If  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  come  again  in 
an  hour,"  says  the  banker,  with  his  mouthful  of  dinner  at  one 
o'clock,  "  you  can  have  the  money."  There  is  nobody  at  the  hotel 
Bave  the  good  landlady,  the  kind  waiters,  the  brisk  young  cook 
who  ministers  to  you.  Nobody  is  in  the  Protestant  church — (oh  ! 
strange  sight,  the  two  confessions  are  here  at  peace  !) — nobody  in 
the  Catholic  church  :  until  the  sacristan,  from  his  snug  abode  in 
the  cathedral  close,  espies  the  traveller  eyeing  the  monsters  and 
pillars  before  the  old  shark-toothed  arch  of  his  cathedral,  and  comes 
out  (with  a  view  to  remuneration  possibly)  and  opens  the  gate,  and 
shows  you  the  venerable  church,  and  the  queer  old  relics  in  the 
sacristy,  and  the  ancient  vestments  (a  black  velvet  cope,  amongst 
other  robes,  as  fresh  as  yesterday,  and  presented  by  that  notorious 
"  pervert,"  Henry  of  Navarre  and  France),  and  the  statue  of  Saint 
Lucius  who  built  Saint  Peter's  Church,  on  Cornhill. 

What  a  quiet,  kind,  quaint,  pleasant,  pretty  old  town !  Has 
it  been  asleep  these  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years,  and  is  the 
brisk  young  Prince  of  the  Sidereal  Realms  in  his  screaming  car 
drawn  by  his  snorting  steel  elephant  coming  to  waken  it?  Time 
was  when  there  must  have  been  life  and  bustle  and  commerce 
here.  Those  vast  venerable  walls  were  not  made  to  keep  out  cows, 
but  men-at-arms,  led  by  fierce  captains,  who  prowled  about  the 
gates,  and  robbed  the  traders  as  they  passed  in  and  out  with  their 
bales,  their  goods,  their  pack-horses  and  their  wains.  Is  the  place 
so  dead  that  even  the  clergy  of  the  different  denominations  can't 
quarrel  1  Why,  seven  or  eight,  or  a  dozen,  or  fifteen  hundred  years 
ago  (they  haven't  the  register  at  Saint  Peter's  up  to  that  remote 
period — I  daresay  it  was  burnt  in  the  fire  of  London) — a  dozen 
hundred  years  ago,  when  there  was  some  life  in  the  town.  Saint 
Lucius  was  stoned  here  on  account  of  theological  differences,  after 
founding  our  church  in  Cornhill. 


ON    A    LAZY    IDLE    BOY  169 

There  was  a  sweet  i)retty  river  walk  we  used  to  take  in  the 
evening  and  mark  the  mountains  round  glooming  with  a  deeper 
purple ;  the  shades  creeping  up  the  golden  walls ;  the  river  brawl- 
ing, the  cattle  calling,  the  maids  and  chatterboxes  round  the 
fountains  babbling  and  bawling;  and  several  times  in  the  course 
of  our  sober  walks  we  overtook  a  lazy  slouching  boy,  or  hobble- 
dehoy, with  a  rusty  coat,  and  trousers  not  too  long,  and  big  feet 
trailing  lazily  one  after  the  other,  and  large  lazy  hands  dawdling 
from  out  the  tight  sleeves,  and  in  the  lazy  hands  a  little  book, 
which  my  lad  held  up  to  his  face,  and  which  I  daresay  so  charmed 
and  ravished  him,  that  he  was  blind  to  the  beautiful  sights  around 
him ;  unmindful,  I  would  venture  to  lay  any  wager,  of  the  lessons 
he  had  to  learn  for  to-morrow  ;  forgetful  of  mother  waiting  supper, 
and  fiither  j)reparing  a  scolding ; — absorbed  utterly  and  entirely 
in  his  book. 

What  was  it  that  so  fliscinated  the  young  student,  as  he  stood 
by  the  river  shore '?  Not  the  2>ons  asinorum.  What  book  so 
delighted  him,  and  blinded  him  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  so 
that  he  did  not  care  to  see  the  apple-woman  with  her  fruit,  or 
(more  tempting  still  to  sons  of  Eve)  the  pretty  girls  with  their 
apple  cheeks,  who  laughed  and  prattled  round  the  fountain  1  What 
was  the  bookl  Do  you  suppose  it  was  Livy,  or  the  Greek 
grammar  1  No ;  it  was  a  Novel  that  you  were  reading,  you  lazy, 
not  very  clean,  good-for-nothing,  sensible  boy  !  It  was  D'Artagnan 
locking  up  General  Monk  in  a  box,  or  almost  succeeding  in  keeping 
Charles  the  First's  head  on.  It  was  the  prisoner  of  the  Chateau 
d'lf  cutting  himself  out  of  the  sack  fifty  feet  under  water  (I 
mention  the  novels  I  like  best  myself — novels  without  love  or 
talking,  or  any  of  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but  containing  plenty  of 
fighting,  escaping,  robbery,  and  rescuing) — cutting  liimself  out  of 
the  sack  and  swimming  to  the  island  of  Monte  Cristo.  0  Dumas  ! 
0  thou  brave  kind  gallant  old  Alexandre  !  I  hereby  ofler  thee 
homage,  and  give  thee  thanks  for  many  pleasant  hours.  I  have 
read  thee  (being  sick  in  bed)  for  thirteen  hours  of  a  happy  day, 
and  had  the  ladies  of  the  house  fighting  for  the  volumes.  Be 
assured  that  lazy  boy  was  reading  Dumas  (or  I  will  go  so  far  as 
to  let  the  reader  here  pronounce  the  eulogium,  or  insert  the  name 
of  his  favourite  author) ;  iind  as  for  the  anger,  or,  it  may  be,  the 
verberations  of  his  schoolmaster,  or  the  remonstrances  of  his  fiither, 
or  the  tender  pleadings  of  his  mother  that  he  should  not  let  the 
supper  grow  cold — I  don't  believe  the  scapegrace  cared  one  fig. 
No !     Figs  are  sweet,  but  fictions  are  sweeter. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  score  of  white-bearded,  white-robed 
warriors,  or  grave  seniors  of  the  city,  seated  at  tlie  gate  of  Jaffa  ur 


170  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Beyrout,  and  listening  to  the  story-teller  reciting  his  marvels  out 
of  "  Antar"  or  the  "Arabian  Nights"?  I  was  once  present  when 
a  young  gentleman  at  table  jnit  a  tart  away  from  him,  and  said  to 
his  neighbour,  the  Younger  Son  (with  rather  a  fatuous  air),  "I 
never  eat  sweets." 

"  Not  eat  sweets  !  and  <lo  you  know  why?"  says  T. 

"Be(;ause  I  am  jxxst  tliat  kind  of  thing,"  says  the  young 
gentleman. 

"  Because  you  are  a  glutton  and  a  sot ! "  cries  the  Elder  (and 
Juvenis  winces  a  little).  '"AH  people  who  have  natural  healthy 
appetites  love  sweets ;  all  children,  all  women,  all  Eastern  i)eople, 
whose  tastes  are  not  corrui)ted  by  gluttony  and  strong  drink." 
And  a  plateful  of  raspberries  and  cream  disappeared  before  the 
philosopher. 

You  take  the  allegory  ?  Novels  are  sweets.  All  people  with 
healthy  literary  appetites  love  them— almost  all  women  ;  —  a  vast 
number  of  clever  hard-headed  men.  Why,  one  of  the  most  learned 
physicians  in  England  said  to  me  only  yesterday,  "  I  have  just 
read  So-and-so  for  the  second  time"  (naming  one  of  Jones's  ex- 
quisite fictions).  Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  mathematicians  are 
notorious  novel-readers  ;  as  well  as  young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and 
tlieir  kind  tender  mothers.  Who  has  not  read  ab(jut  Eldon,  and 
how  he  cried  over  novels  every  night  when  he  was  not  at  whist  ? 

As  for  that  lazy  nauglity  boy  at  Chur,  I  doubt  whether  he  will 
like  novels  when  he  is  thirty  years  of  age.  He  is  taking  too  great 
a  glut  of  them  now.  He  is  eating  jelly  until  he  will  be  sick.  He 
will  know  most  plots  by  the  time  he  is  twenty,  so  that  he  will 
never  be  surprised  when  the  Stranger  turns  out  to  be  the  rightful 
earl, — when  the  old  waterman,  throwing  off  his  beggarly  gabardine, 
shows  his  stars  and  the  collars  of  his  various  orders,  and  clasping 
Antonia  to  his  bosom,  proves  himself  to  be  the  prince,  her  long-lost 
father.  He  will  recognise  the  novelist's  same  characters,  though 
they  appear  in  red-lieeled  pumps  and  ailes-de-jngeon,  or  the  garb 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  He  will  get  weary  of  sweets,  as  boys 
of  private  schools  grow  (or  used  to  grow,  for  I  have  done  growing 
some  little  time  myself,  and  the  practice  may  have  ended  too) — as 
private  schoolboys  used  to  grow  tired  of  the  pudding  before  their 
mutton  at  dinner. 

And  pray  what  is  the  moral  of  this  apologue?  The  moral  I 
take  to  be  this  :  the  appetite  for  novels  extending  to  the  end  of  the 
world — far  away  in  the  frozen  deep,  the  sailors  reading  them  to  one 
another  during  the  endless  night ;  far  away  under  the  Syrian  stars, 
the  solemn  sheikhs  and  elders  hearkening  to  the  poet  as  he  recites 
his  tales ;  far  away  in  the  Indian  camps,  where  the  soldiers  listen 


ON    A    LAZY    IDLE    BOY  171 

to 's  tales,  or 's,  after  the  hot  day's  march ;  far  away  in 

little  Chur  yonder,  where  the  lazy  boy  pores  over  the  fond  volume, 
and  drinks  it  in  with  all  his  eyes ; — tlie  demand  being  what  we 
know  it  is,  the  merchant  must  supply  it  as  he  will  supply  saddles 
and  pale  ale  for  Bombay  or  Calcutta. 

But  as  surely  as  the  cadet  drinks  too  much  pale  ale,  it  will 
disagree  with  him ;  and  so  surely,  dear  youth,  will  too  much  of 
novels  cloy  on  thee.  I  wonder,  do  novel-writers  themselves  read 
many  novels  1  If  you  go  into  Gunter's,  you  don't  see  those  charm- 
ing young  ladies  (to  whom  I  present  my  most  respectful  compli- 
ments) eating  tarts  and  ices,  but  at  the  proper  eventide  they  have 
good  plain  wliolesome  tea  and  bread-and-butter.  Can  anybody 
tell  me  does  the  author  of  the  "  Tale  of  Two  Cities  "  read  novels  ? 
does  the  author  of  the  "  Tower  of  London  "  devour  romances  1  does 
the  dashing  "Harry  Lorrequer"  delight  in  "Plain  or  Ringlets"  or 
"  Sponge's  Sporting  Tour  "  1  Does  the  veteran,  from  whose  flowing 
pen  we  had  the  books  which  delighted  our  young  days,  "  Darnley," 
and  "  Richelieu,"  and  "Delorme,"*  relish  the  works  of  Alexandre 
the  Great,  and  thrill  over  the  "  Three  Musqueteers "  ?  Does  the 
accomplished  author  of  the  "  Caxtons "  read  the  other  tales  in 
Blackwood  ?  (For  example,  that  ghost-story  printed  last  August, 
and  which,  for  my  part,  thougli  I  read  it  in  the  public  reading- 
room  at  the  "  Pavilion  "  Hotel  at  Folkestone,  I  protest  frightened 
me  so  that  I  scarce  dared  look  out  over  my  shoulder.)  Does 
"Uncle  Tom"  admire  "Adam  Bede  "  ?  and  does  the  author  of  the 
"  Vicar  of  Wrexhill "  laugh  over  the  "  Warden  "  and  the  "  Three 
Clerks "  ]  Dear  youth  of  ingenuous  countenance  and  ingenuous 
pudor  !  I  make  no  doubt  that  the  eminent  parties  above  named  all 
partake  of  novels  in  moderation — eat  jellies^but  mainly  nourish 
themselves  upon  wdiolesome  roast  and  boiled. 

Here,  dear  youth  aforesaid !  our  Cornhill  Mcujazine  owners 
strive  to  provide  thee  with  facts  as  well  as  fiction ;  and  though  it 
does  not  become  tliem  to  brag  of  their  Ordinary,  at  least  they  invite 
thee  to  a  table  where  tliou  shalt  sit  in  good  company.  That  story 
of  the  "Fox"t  was  written  by  one  of  the  gallant  seamen  wiio 
sought  for  poor  Franklin  under  the  awful  Arctic  Night  :  tliat 
account  of  China  %  is  told  by  the  man  of  all  the  empire  most  likely 

*  By  the  way,  what  a  strange  fate  is  that  which  befell  the  veteran  novelist ! 
He  was  appointed  her  Majesty's  Consul-General  in  Venice,  the  only  city  in 
Europe  where  the  famous  "two  cavaliers  "  cannot  bj'  any  possibility  be  seen 
riding  together. 

f  "The  Search  for  Sir  John  Franklin.  (From  the  Private  Joninal  of  an 
Officer  of  the  '  Fox.')  " 

■^  "  The  Chinese  and  the  Outer  Barbarians."     By  Sir  Jolm  Bowring. 


172  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

to  know  of  what  lie  speaks  :  those  pages  regarding  Volunteers  * 
come  from  an  honoured  hand  that  has  borne  the  sword  in  a  hundred 
famous  fields,  and  pointed  the  British  guns  in  the  greatest  siege  in 
the  world. 

Shall  we  point  out  others  1  We  are  fellow-travellers,  and  shall 
make  acquaintance  as  the  voyage  proceeds.  In  the  Atlantic 
steamers,  on  the  first  day  out  (and  on  high-  and  holy-days  subse- 
quently), the  jellies  set  down  on  table  are  richly  ornamented; 
medioque  in  fonte  leporum  rise  the  American  and  British  flags 
nobly  emblazoned  in  tin.  As  the  passengers  remark  this  pleasing 
phenomenon,  the  Captain  no  doubt  improves  the  occasion  by  ex- 
pressing a  hope,  to  his  right  and  left,  that  the  flag  of  Mr.  Bull  and 
his  younger  Brother  may  always  float  side  by  side  in  friendly  emula- 
tion. Novels  having  been  previously  compared  to  jellies — here  are 
two  (one  perhaps  not  entirely  saccharine,  and  flavoured  with  an 
amari  aliqnid  very  distasteful  to  some  palates)  — ■  two  novels  t 
under  two  flags,  the  one  that  ancient  ensign  which  has  hung  before 
the  well-known  booth  of  "  Vanity  Fair  " ;  the  other  that  fresh  and 
handsome  standard  which  has  lately  been  hoisted  on  "  Barchester 
Towers."     Pray,  sir,  or  madam,  to  which  dish  will  you  be  helped? 

So  have  I  seen  my  friends  Captain  Lang  and  Captain  Comstock 
press  their  guests  to  partake  of  the  ftire  on  that  memorable  "  First 
day  out,"  when  there  is  no  man,  I  think,  who  sits  down  but  asks  a 
blessing  on  his  voyage,  and  the  good  ship  dips  over  the  bar,  and 
bounds  away  into  the  blue  water. 

*  "Our  Volunteers."     By  Sir  John  Biirjroyne. 

t  "Lovel  the  Widower"  and  "Framley  Parsonage." 


NIL  NISI  BONUM 


ALMOST  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter  spoke  to  Lockhart, 
his  biographer,  were,  "  Be  a  good  man,  my  dear  !  "  and  with 
^    the  last  flicker  of  breath  on  his  dying  lips,  he  sighed  a  fare- 
well to  his  family,  and  passed  away  blessing  them. 

Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have  just  left  us,  the 
Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of  our  time.*  Ere  a  few  weeks  are 
over,  many  a  critic's  pen  will  be  at  work,  reviewing  their  lives  and 
passing  judgment  on  their  works.  Tliis  is  no  review,  or  history,  or 
criticism  :  only  a  word  in  testimony  of  respect  and  regard  from  a 
mail  of  letters,  Avho  owes  to  his  own  professional  labour  the  honour 
of  becoming  acquainted  with  these  two  eminent  literary  men.  One 
was  the  first  Ambassador  whom  the  New  World  of  Letters  sent  to 
the  Old.  He  was  born  almost  with  the  republic  ;  the  pater  patria' 
had  laid  his  hand  on  the  child's  head.  He  bore  Washington's 
name ;  he  came  amongst  us  bringing  the  kindest  sympathy,  the 
most  artless  smiling  goodwill.  His  new  country  (which  some 
people  here  might  be  disposed  to  regard  rather  superciliously)  could 
send  us,  as  he  showed  in  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who,  tliourh 
himself  born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most  finished,  polishi<., 
easy,  witty,  quiet;  and,  socially,  the  equal  of  the  most  refined 
Europeans.  If  Irving's  welcome  in  England  was  a  kind  one,  was  it 
not  also  gratefully  remembered  %  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not  pay 
us  with  a  thankful  heart  1  Who  can  calculate  the  amount  of  friend- 
liness and  good  feeling  for  our  country  which  this  writer's  generous 
and  untiring  regard  for  us  disseminated  in  his  own  1  His  books  are 
read  by  millions  f  of  his  countrymen,  whom  he  has  taught  to  love 
England,  and  why  to  love  her.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  speak 
otherwise  than  he  did :  to  inflame  national  rancours,  which,  at  the 
time  when  he  first  became  known  as  a  i)ublic  writer,  war  had  just 
renewed :  to  cry  down  the  old  civilisation  at  the  expense  of  the 

*  Washington  Irving,  died  November  28,  1859 ;  Lord  Macaulay,  died 
December  28,  1859. 

t  See  bis  Life  in  tbo  most  reniarkiiblc  Dictionary  of  Authors,  published 
>s,tely  at  Philadelphia  by  Mr,  Alibone. 


174  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

new  :  to  point  out  our  faults,  arrogance,  shortcomings,  and  give  the 
republic  to  infer  how  mucli  she  was  the  parent  state's  superior. 
Tliere  arc  writers  enough  in  the  United  States,  honest  and  other- 
wise, wlio  preach  that  kind  of  doctrine.  But  the  good  Irving,  the 
I)eaceful,  tlie  friendly,  liad  no  i)lace  for  bitterness  in  his  heart,  and 
no  scheme  but  kindness.  Received  in  England  with  extraordinary 
tenderness  and  friendship  (Scott,  Southey,  Byron,  a  hundred  others 
have  borne  witness  to  their  liking  for  him),  he  was  a  messenger  of 
goodwill  and  peace  between  his  country  and  ours.  "  See,  friends  !  " 
he  seems  to  say,  "tliese  English  are  not  so  wicked,  rapacious, 
callous,  proud,  as  you  have  been  taught  to  believe  tliem.  I  went 
amongst  tliem  a  humble  man ;  won  my  Avay  by  my  pen  ;  and,  when 
known,  found  every  hand  held  out  to  me  with  kindliness  and 
welcome.  Scott  is  a  great  man,  you  acknowledge.  Did  not  Scott's 
King  of  England  give  a  gold  medal  to  him,  and  another  to  me,  your 
countryman,  and  a  stranger  1 " 

Tradition  in  tlie  United  States  still  fondly  retains  the  history 
of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings  which  awaited  Irving  on  his  return  to 
his  native  country  from  Euroi)e.  He  had  a  national  welcome ;  he 
stammered  in  his  speeches,  hid  liimself  in  confusion,  and  the  people 
loved  him  all  the  better.  He  had  worthily  represented  America  in 
Europe.  In  that  young  community  a  man  who  brings  home  with 
liim  abundant  European  testimonials  is  still  treated  with  respect  (I 
liave  found  American  writers,  of  wide-world  reputation,  strangely 
solicitous  aliout  the  opinions  of  quite  obscure  British  critics,  and 
elated  or  depressed  by  their  judgments) ;  and  Irving  went  home 
medalled  by  the  King,  dii)lomati8ed  by  the  University,  crowned  and 
honoured  and  admired.  He  had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for  his 
honours,  he  had  fairiy  won  them  ;  -and,  in  Irving's  instance,  as  in 
others,  tlie  old  country  was  glad  and  eager  to  pay  them. 

In  America  tlie  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a  national  senti- 
ment. Party  wars  are  perpetually  raging  there,  and  are  carried  on 
by  the  jn-ess  with  a  rancour  and  fierceness  against  individuals  which 
exceed  British,  almost  Irish,  virulence.  It  seemed  to  me,  during  a 
year's  travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  one  ever  aimed  a  blow  at 
Irving.  All  men  held  their  hands  from  that  harmless  friendly 
])eacemaker.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York, 
Pliiladelphia,  Baltimore,  and  Washington,*  and  remarked  how  in 
every  place  he  was  honoured  and  welcome.  Every  large  city  has 
its  "  Irving  House."     The  country  takes  i^ride  in  the  fame  of  its 

*  At  Washington,  Mr.  Irving  came  to  a  lecture  given  by  the  writer,  which 
Mr.  Filmore  and  General  Pierce,  the  President  and  President  Elect,  were  also 
kind  enough  to  attend  together.  "Two  Kings  of  Brentford  smellinp  at  one 
-ose,"  says  Irving,  looking  up  with  his  good-humoured  smile. 


^^^^i 


AN        INTERVIEWER. 


NIL    NISI    BONUM  175 

men  of  letters.  The  gate  of  his  own  charming  little  domain  on  the 
beautiful  Hudson  River  was  for  ever  swinging  before  visitors  who 
came  to  him.  He  shut  out  no  one.*  I  had  seen  many  pictures  of 
his  house,  and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in  both  of  which  it  was  treated 
with  a  not  unusual  American  exaggeration.  It  was  but  a  pretty 
little  cabin  of  a  place ;  the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes 
of  the  place,  whilst  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping,  might  have 
visited  the  whole  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 

And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small,  when  Mr.  Irving's 
books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  millions,  when  his 
profits  were  known  to  be  large,  and  the  habits  of  life  of  the  good 
old  bachelor  were  notoriously  modest  and  simple  1  He  had  loved 
once  in  his  life.  The  lady  he  loved  died ;  and  he,  whom  all  the 
worhl  loved,  never  sought  to  replace  her.  I  can't  say  how  much 
the  thought  of  that  fidelity  has  touched  me.  Does  not  the  very 
cheerfulness  of  his  after  life  add  to  the  pathos  of  that  untold  story  1 
To  gi'ieve  always  was  not  in  his  nature  :  or,  when  he  had  his  sorrow, 
to  bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole  with  him  and  bemoan  it.  Deep 
and  quiet  he  lays  the  love  of  his  heart,  and  buries  it ;  and  grass  and 
flowers  grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in  due  time. 

Ii-ving  had  sucli  a  small  house  and  such  narrow  rooms,  because 
there  was  a  great  number  of  people  to  occupy  them.  He  could 
only  afford  to  keep  one  old  horse  (which,  lazy  and  aged  as  it  w'as, 
managed  once  or  twice  to  run  away  with  that  careless  old  horseman). 
He  could  only  afford  to  give  plain  sherry  to  that  amiable  British 
paragi-aph-monger  from  New  York,  who  saw  the  patriarch  asleep 
over  his  modest  blameless  cup,  and  fetched  the  public  into  his 
private  chamber  to  look  at  him.  Irving  could  only  live  very 
modestly,  because  the  wifeless,  childless  man  had  a  number  of 
children  to  whom  he  was  as  a  father.  He  had  as  many  as  nine 
nieces,  I  am  told — I  saw  two  of  these  ladies  at  his  house- — with 
all  of  whom  the  dear  old  man  had  shared  the  produce  of  his  labour 
and  genius. 

"  £e  a  good  tnayi,  my  dear."  One  can't  but  think  of  these 
last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief  of  Letters,  who  had  tasted  and 
tested  the  value  of  worldly  success,   admiration,   prosperity.     Was 

*  Mr.  Irving  described  to  me,  with  that  humour  and  good-liumour  which 
he  always  kept,  how,  amongst  other  visitors,  a  member  of  the  British  press 
who  had  carried  his  distinguished  pen  to  America  (where  he  employed  it  in 
vilifying  his  own  country)  came  to  Sunnyside,  introduced  himself  to  Irving, 
partook  of  his  wine  and  luncheon,  and  in  two  days  described  Mr.  Irving,  his 
house  his  nieces,  his  meal,  and  his  manner  of  dozing  afterwards,  in  a  Kew 
Yorlc  paper.  On  another  occasion,  Irving  said,  laughing,  "Two  persons  crime 
to  me,  and  one  held  me  iij  conversation  whilst  the  other  miscreant  took  my 
portrait  I ' 


176  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Irving  not  good,  and  of  his  works,  was  not  his  life  the  best  part  ? 
In  his  family,  gentle,  generous,  good-humoured,  affectionate,  self- 
denying  :  in  society,  a  delightful  example  of  complete  gentleman- 
hood  ;  quite  unspoiled  by  prosperity ;  never  obsequious  to  the 
great  (or,  worse  still,  to  the  base  anil  mean,  as  some  public  men 
are  forced  to  be  in  his  and  other  countries) ;  eager  to  acknowledge 
every  contemporary's  merit ;  always  kind  and  affable  to  the  young 
members  of  his  calling ;  in  his  professional  bargains  and  mercantile 
dealings  delicately  honest  and  grateful ;  one  of  the  most  charming 
masters  of  our  lighter  language  ;  tlie  constant  friend  to  us  and  our 
nation ;  to  men  of  letters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  genius 
merely,  but  as  an  exemplar  of  goodness,  probity,  and  pure  life  : — 
I  don't  know  what  sort  of  testimonial  will  be  raised  to  him  in  his 
own  country,  where  generous  and  enthusiastic  acknowledgment  of 
American  merit  is  never  wanting ;  but  Irving  was  in  our  service 
as  well  as  theirs ;  and  as  they  have  placed  a  stone  at  Greenwich 
yonder  in  memory  of  that  gallant  young  Bellot,  who  shared  the 
perils  and  fate  of  some  of  our  Arctic  seamen,  I  would  like  to  hear 
of  some  memorial  raised  by  English  writers  and  friends  of  letters  in 
affectionate  remembrance  of  the  dear  and  good  Washington  Irving. 

As  for  the  other  writer,  whose  departure  many  friends,  some 
few  most  dearly-loved  relatives,  and  multitudes  of  admiring  readers 
deplore,  our  republic  has  already  decreed  his  statue,  and  he  must 
have  known  that  he  had  earned  this  posthumous  honour.  He  is 
not  a  poet  and  man  of  letters  merely,  but  citizen,  statesman,  a  great 
British  worthy.  Almost  from  the  first  moment  when  he  appears, 
amongst  boys,  amongst  college  students,  amongst  men,  he  is  marked, 
and  takes  rank  as  a  great  Englishman.  All  sorts  of  successes  are 
easy  to  him :  as  a  lad  he  goes  down  into  the.  arena  with  others,  and 
wins  all  the  prizes  to  which  he  has  a  mind.  A  place  in  the  senate 
is  straightway  offered  to  the  young  man.  He  takes  his  seat  there ; 
he  speaks,  when  so  minded,  without  party  anger  or  intrigue,  but 
not  without  party  faith  and  a  sort  of  heroic  enthusiasm  for  his 
cause.  Still  he  is  poet  and  philosopher  even  more  than  orator. 
That  he  may  have  leisure  and  means  to  pursue  his  darling  studies, 
he  absents  himself  for  a  while,  and  accepts  a  richly-remunerative 
post  in  the  East.  As  learned  a  man  may  live  in  a  cottage  or  a 
college  common-room ;  but  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  ample 
means  and  reeogni^sed  rank  were  Macaulay's  as  of  right.  Years  ago 
there  was  a  wretched  outcry  raised  because  Mr.  Macaulay  dated  a 
letter  from  Windsor  Castle,  where  he  was  staying.  Immortal  gods  ! 
AVas  this  man  not  a  fit  guest  for  any  palace  in  the  world  1  or  a  fit 
companion  for  any  man  or  woman  in  it  ?  I  daresay,  after  Auster- 
litz,  tlie  old  K,  IC.  Court  officials  and  footmen  sneered  at  Napoleon 


NIL    NISI    BONUM  177 

for  dating  from  Schonbrunn.  But  that  miserable  "  Windsor  Castle  " 
outcry  is  an  echo  out  of  fast-retreating  old-world  remembrances. 
The  place  of  such  a  natural  chief  was  amongst  the  first  in  the  land  ; 
and  that  country  is  best,  according  to  our  British  notion  at  least, 
where  the  man  of  eminence  has  the  best  chance  of  investing  his 
genius  and  intellect. 

If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together,  very  likely  one  or  two 
of  the  mere  six-feet-six  people  might  be  angry  at  the  incontestable 
superiority  of  the  very  tallest  of  the  party  :  and  so  I  have  heard 
some  London  wits,  rather  peevish  at  Macaulay's  superiority,  com- 
plain that  he  occupied  too  much  of  the  talk,  and  so  forth.  Now 
that  wonderful  tongue  is  to  speak  no  more,  will  not  many  a  man 
grieve  that  he  no  longer  has  the  chance  to  listen  1  To  remember 
the  talk  is  to  wonder :  to  think  not  only  of  the  treasures  he  liad 
in  his  memory,  but  of  the  trifles  he  had  stored  there,  and  could 
produce  with  equal  readiness.  Almost  on  the  last  day  I  had  the 
fortune  to  see  him,  a  conversation  happened  suddenly  to  spring  up 
about  senior  wranglers,  and  what  they  had  done  in  after  life.  To  the 
almost  terror  of  the  persons  present,  Macaulay  began  with  the  senior 
wrangler  of  1801-2-3-4,  and  so  on,  giving  the  name  of  each,  and 
relating  his  subsequent  career  and  rise.  Every  man  who  has  known 
him  has  his  story  regarding  that  astonishing  memory.  It  may  be 
that  he  was  not  ill-pleased  that  you  should  recognise  it ;  but  to 
those  prodigious  intellectual  feats,  which  were  so  easy  to  him,  who 
would  grudge  his  tribute  of  homage  1  His  talk  M'as,  in  a  word, 
admirable,  and  we  admired  it. 

Of  the  notices  which  have  appeared  regarding  Lord  Macaulay, 
up  to  the  day  when  the  present  lines  are  written  (the  9th  of 
January),  the  reader  should  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  looking 
especially  at  two.  It  is  a  good  sign  of  the  times  when  such  articles 
as  these  (I  mean  the  articles  in  the  Times  and  tSatvrdaj/  Eeview) 
appear  in  our  public  prints  about  our  public  men.  They  educate  us, 
as  it  were,  to  admire  rightly.  An  uninstructed  person  in  a  museum 
or  at  a  concert  may  pass  by  without  recognising  a  picture  or  a 
])assage  of  music,  which  th(;  connoisseur  by  his  side  may  show  him 
is  a  masterpiece  of  harmony,  or  a  wonder  of  artistic  skill.  After 
reading  these  papers  you  like  and  respect  more  the  person  you  have 
admired  so  much  already.  And  so  with  regard  to  Macaulay's  style 
there  maybe  faults  of  course — what  critic  can't  point  them  out? 
But  for  the  nonce  we  are  not  talking  about  faults  :  we  want  to 
say  nil  nisi  honnm.  AVell — take  at  hazard  any  three  pages  of  the 
"  Essays  "  or  "  History  :  "—  and,  glimmering  below  the  stream  of 
the  nanative,  as  it  were,  you,  an  average  reader,  see  one,  two, 
three,  a  half-score  of  allusions  to  other  historic   facts,   <  haracters, 


178  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

literature,  poetry,  with  which  you  are  acquainted.  Why  is  this 
epitliet  used  ]  Whence  is  tliat  simile  drawn  1  How  does  he  manage, 
in  two  or  three  words,  to  paint  an  individual,  or  to  indicate  a  land- 
scape 1  Your  neighbour,  who  has  his  reading,  and  his  little  stock 
of  literature  stowed  away  in  his  mind,  shall  detect  more  points, 
allusions,  happy  touches,  indicating  not  only  the  prodigious  memory 
and  vast  learning  of  this  master,  but  the  wonderful  industry,  the 
honest,  humble,  previous  toil  of  this  great  scholar.  He  reads 
twenty  books  to  write  a  sentence ;  he  travels  a  hundred  miles  to 
make  a  line  of  description. 

Many  Londoners — not  all — have  seen  the  British  Museum 
Library.  I  speak  d  coeur  ouvert,  and  pray  the  kindly  reader  to 
bear  with  me.  I  have  seen  all  sorts  of  domes  of  Peters  and  Pauls, 
Sophia,  Pantheon, — what  not? — and  have  been  struck  by  none  of 
them  so  much  as  by  that  catholic  dome  in  Bloomsbury,  under  which 
our  million  volumes  are  housed.  W^hat  peace,  what  love,  what 
truth,  what  beauty,  what  happiness  for  all,  what  generous  kindness 
for  you  and  me,  are  here  spread  out !  It  seems  to  me  one  cannot 
sit  down  in  that  i)lace  without  a  heart  full  of  grateful  reverence. 
I  own  to  have  said  my  grace  at  the  table,  and  to  have  thanked 
Heaven  for  this  my  English  birthright,  freely  to  partake  of  these 
bountiful  books,  and  to  speak  the  truth  I  find  there.  Under  the 
dome  which  held  Macaulay's  brain,  and  from  which  his  solemn  eyes 
looked  out  on  the  world  but  a  fortnight  since,  what  a  vast,  brilliant, 
and  wonderful  store  of  learning  was  ranged  !  what  strange  lore 
would  he  not  fetch  for  you  at  your  bidding !  A  volume  of  law,  or 
history,  a  book  of  poetry  familiar  or  forgotten  (except  by  himself 
who  forgot  nothing),  a  novel  ever  so  old,  and  he  had  it  at  hand.  I 
spoke  to  him  once  about  "Clarissa."  "Not  read  'Clarissa'!"  he 
cried  out.  "  If  you  have  once  thoroughly  entered  on  '  Clarissa '  and 
are  infected  by  it,  you  can't  leave  it.  When  I  was  in  India  I  passed 
one  hot  season  at  the  hills,  and  there  were  the  Governor-General, 
and  the  Secretary  of  Government,  and  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
their  wives.  I  had  '  Clarissa '  with  me  :  and,  as  soon  as  they  began 
to  read,  the  whole  station  was  in  a  passion  of  excitement  about 
Miss  Harlowe  and  her  misfortunes,  and  her  scoundrelly  Lovelace  ! 
The  Governor's  wife  seized  the  book,  and  the  Secretary  waited  for 
it,  and  the  Chief  Justice  could  not  read  it  for  tears  !  "  He  acted  the 
whole  scene  :  he  pacetl  up  and  down  the  "  AthentEum  "  library  :  I 
daresay  he  could  have  spoken  pages  of  the  book — of  that  book,  and 
of  what  countless  piles  of  others  ! 

In  this  little  paper  let  us  keep  to  the  text  of  nil  nisi  bonum. 
One  paper  I  have  read  regarding  Lord  Macaulay  says  "  he  had  no 
heart."     Why,  a  maus  books  may  not  always  speak  the  truth,  but 


NIL    NI    I    BONUM  179 

they  speak  his  mind  in  spite  of  himself:  and  it  seems  to  me  this 
man's  heart  is  beating  through  every  page  he  penned.  He  is  always 
in  a  storm  of  revolt  and  indignation  against  wrong,  craft,  tyranny. 
How  he  cheers  heroic  resistance ;  how  he  backs  and  applauds  free- 
dom struggling  for  its  own ;  how  he  hates  scoundrels,  ever  so  vic- 
torious and  successful ;  how  lie  recognises  genius,  though  selfisli 
villains  possess  it !  The  critic  who  says  Macaulay  had  no  heart, 
might  say  tliat  Johnson  had  none  :  and  two  men  more  generous, 
and  more  loving,  and  more  hating,  and  more  partial,  and  more  noble, 
do  not  live  in  our  history.  Those  who  knew  Lord  Macaulay  knew 
how  admirably  tender  and  generous,*  and  aft'ectionate  he  was.  It 
was  not  his  business  to  bring  his  family  before  the  tlieatre  footlights, 
and  call  for  bouquets  from  the  gallery  as  lie  wept  over  them. 

If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little  sermon — and  to 
him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed — I  would  say  to  him,  "  Bear  Scott's 
words  in  your  mind,  and  '■he  good,  my  deary  Here  are  two 
literary  men  gone  to  their  account,  and,  laus  Deo,  as  far  as  we 
know,  it  is  fair,  and  open,  and  clean.  Here  is  no  need  of  apologies 
for  shortcomings,  or  explanations  of  vices  which  would  have  been 
virtues  but  for  unavoidable  &c.  Here  are  two  examples  of  men 
most  diflerently  gifted  :  each  pursuing  his  calling ;  each  speaking 
his  truth  as  God  bade  him ;  each  honest  in  his  life  ;  just  and  irre- 
proachable in  his  dealings ;  dear  to  his  friends  ;  honoured  by  his 
country  ;  beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  Ijeen  tlie  fortunate  lot  of 
both  to  give  incalculable  happiness  and  deliglit  to  the  world,  which 
thanks  them  in  return  with  an  immense  kindliness,  respect,  affection. 
It  may  not  be  our  chance,  brother  scribe,  to  be  endowed  with  such 
merit,  or  rewarded  with  such  fame.  But  the  rewards  of  these  men 
are  rewards  paid  to  o^ir  service.  We  may  not  win  the  baton  or 
epaulettes ;  but  God  give  us  strength  to  guard  the  honour  of  tlie 
flag! 

*  Since  the  above  Wcas  written,  I  have  been  informed  that  it  has  been  found, 
on  examining  Lord  Macaulay's  papers,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  away 
iiiore  than  a  fourth  part  of  hi.s  annual  income. 


ON  TWO   CHILDREN  IN  BLACK 


MONTAIGNE  and  "  Howel's  Letters  "  are  my  bedside  books. 
If  I  wake  at  night,  I  have  one  or  other  of  them  to  prattle 
me  to  sleep  again.  They  talk  about  themselves  for  ever, 
and  don't  weary  me.  I  like  to  hear  them  tell  their  old  stories 
over  and  over  again.  I  read  them  in  the  dozy  hours,  and  only  half 
remember  them.  I  am  informed  that  both  .of  them  tell  coarse 
stories.  I  don't  heed  them.  It  was  the  custom  of  their  time,  as 
it  is  of  Highlanders  and  Hottentots,  to  dispense  with  a  part  of 
dress  which  we  all  wear  in  cities.  But  people  can't  afford  to  be 
shocked  eitlier  at  Cape  Town  or  at  Inverness  every  time  they  meet 
an  individual  who  wears  his  national  airy  raiment.  I  never  knew 
the  "  Arabian  Nights "  was  an  improper  book  until  I  happened 
once  to  read  it  in  a  "  family  edition."  Well,  qui  s^ excuse.  .  .  . 
Who,  pray,  has  accused  me  as  yet  ?  Here  am  I  smothering  dear 
good  old  Mrs.  Grundy's  objections,  before  she  has  opened  her  mouth. 
I  love,  I  say,  and  scarce  ever  tire  of  hearing,  the  artless  prattle  of 
those  two  dear  old  friends,  the  Perigourdin  gentleman  and  the 
priggish  little  Clerk  of  King  Charles's  Council.  Their  egotism  in 
nowise  disgusts  me.  I  hope  I  shall  always  like  to  hear  men,  in 
reason,  talk  about  themselves.  What  subject  does  a  man  know 
better  1  If  I  stamp  on  a  friend's  corn,  his  outcry  is  genuine — he 
confounds  my  clumsiness  in  the  accents  of  truth.  He  is  speak- 
ing about  himself,  and  ex[)ressing  his  emotion  of  grief  or  pain 
in  a  manner  perfectly  authentic  and  veracious.  I  have  a  story 
of  my  own,  of  a  wrong  done  to  me  by  somebody,  as  far  back 
as  the  year  1838  :  whenever  I  think  of  it,  and  have  had  a  couple 
of  glasses  of  wine,  I  cannot  help  telling  it.  The  toe  is  stamped 
upon  :  the  pain  is  just  as  keen  as  ever :  I  cry  out,  and  perhajjs 
utter  imprecatory  language.  I  told  the  story  only  last  Wednesday 
at  dinner : — 

"Mr.  Roundabout,"  says  a  lady  sitting  by  me,  "how  comes 
it  that  in  your  books  there  is  a  certain  class  (it  may  be  of  men, 
or  it  may  be  of  women,  but  that  is  not  the  question  in  point) — hoAv 
comes  it,   dear  sir,  there  is  a  certain  class  of  persons  whom  you 


ON    TWO    CHILDREN    IN    BLACK  181 

always  attack  in  your  writings,  and  savagely  rush  at,  goad,  poke, 
toss  up  in  the  air,  kick,  and  trample  on  1 " 

I  couldn't  help  myself.  I  knew  I  ought  not  to  do  it.  I  told 
her  the  whole  story,  between  the  enb-ees  and  the  roast.  The 
wound  began  to  bleed  again.  The  horrid  pang  was  there,  as  keen 
and  as  fresh  as  ever.  If  I  live  half  as  long  as  Tithonus,*  that 
crack  across  my  heart  can  never  be  cured.  There  are  wrongs  and 
griefs  that  can't  be  mended.  It  is  all  very  well  of  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  G.,  to  say  that  this  spirit  is  unchristian,  and  that  we  ought 
to  forgive  and  forget,  and  so  fortli.  How  can  I  forget  at  will  ] 
How  forgive  1  I  can  forgive  the  occasional  waiter  who  broke  my 
beautiful  old  decanter  at  that  very  dinner.  I  am  not  going  to  do 
him  any  injury.  But  all  the  powers  on  earth  can't  make  that 
claret-jug  whole. 

So,  you  see,  I  told  the  lady  the  inevitable  story.  I  was  egotis- 
tical. I  was  selfish,  no  doubt ;  but  I  was  natural,  and  was  telling 
the  truth.  You  say  you  are  angry  with  a  man  for  talking  about 
himself  It  is  because  you  yourself  are  selfish,  that  that  other 
person's  Self  does  not  interest  you.  Be  interested  by  other  people 
and  with  their  affairs.  Let  them  prattle  and  talk  to  you,  as  I  do 
my  dear  old  egotists  just  mentioned.  When  you  have  had  enough 
of  them,  and  sudden  hazes  come  over  your  eyes,  lay  down  the 
volume ;  pop  out  the  candle,  and  dormez  bien.  I  should  like  to 
write  a  nightcap  book — a  book  that  you  can  muse  over,  that  you 
can  smile  over,  that  you  can  yawn  over — a  book  of  which  you  can 
say,  "  Well,  this  man  is  so  and  so  and  so  and  so  ;  but  he  has  a 
friendly  heart  (althougli  some  wiseacres  have  painted  him  as  Ijlack 
as  Bogey),  and  you  may  trust  wliat  he  says."  I  should  like  to 
touch  you  sometimes  with  a  reminiscence  that  shall  waken  your 
sympathy,  and  make  you  say,  lo  anche  have  so  thought,  felt, 
smiled,  suffered.  Now,  how  is  this  to  be  done  except  by  egotism  ? 
Linea  recta  hrevisshna.  That  right  line  "  I "  is  the  very  sliortest, 
simplest,  straightforwardest  means  of  communication  between  us, 
and  stands  for  what  it  is  wortli  and  no  more.  Sometimes  authors 
say,  "the  present  writer  has  often  remarked;"  or,  "The  under- 
signed has  observed  ; "  or  "  Mr.  Roundabout  presents  his  compli- 
ments to  the  gentle  reader,  and  begs  to  state,"  &c.  :  but  "  I "  is 
better  and  straighter  than  all  these  grinuK'cs  of  modesty :  and 
although  these  are  Roundabout  Papers,  and  may  wander  who  knows 
whither,  I  shall  ask  leave  to  maintain  the  ui)right  and  simple 
perpendicular.  When  this  bundle  of  egotisms  is  bound  up  togetlier, 
as  tliey  may  be  one  day,  if  no  accident  prevents  this  tongue  from 

*  "Tithonus,"  by  Tennyson,  had  appealed  in  the  preceding  (the  2nd)  number 
of  tjie  Cornhill  Magazine, 


182  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

wagging,  or  this  ink  from  running,  they  will  bore  you  very  likely ; 
so  it  would  to  read  through  "  Howel's  Letters  "  from  beginning  to 
end,  or  to  eat  up  the  whole  of  a  ham  :  but  a  slice  on  occasion  may 
have  a  relish  :  a  dip  into  the  volume  at  random  and  so  on  for  a 
page  or  two  :  and  now  and  then  a  smile ;  and  presently  a  gape ; 
and  the  book  drops  out  of  your  hand ;  and  so,  bon  soir,  and 
pleasant  dreams  to  you.  I  have  frequently  seen  men  at  clubs 
asleep  over  their  humble  servant's  works,  and  am  always  pleased. 
Even  at  a  lecture  I  don't  mind,  if  they  don't  snore.  Only  the 
otlier  day  when  my  friend  A.  said,  "You've  left  off  that  Round- 
about business,  I  see ;  very  glad  you  have,"  I  joined  in  the  general 
rcjar  of  laughter  at  the  table.  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  Archi- 
lochus  likes  the  papers  or  no.  You  don't  like  partridge,  Archilochus, 
or  porridge,  or  what  not  1  Try  some  other  dish.  I  am  not  going 
to  force  mine  down  your  throat,  or  quarrel  with  you  if  you  refuse 
it.  Once  in  America  a  clever  and  candid  woman  said  to  me,  at 
the  close  of  a  dinner,  during  which  I  had  been  sitting  beside  her, 
'■  Mr.  Roundabout,  I  was  told  I  should  not  like  you;  and  I  don't." 
"  Well,  ma'am,"  says  I,  in  a  tone  of  the  most  unfeigned  simplicity, 
"  I  don't  care."  And  we  became  good  friends  immediately,  and 
esteemed  each  other  ever  after. 

So,  my  dear  Archilochus,  if  you  come  upon  this  paper,  and 
say,  "  Fudge  ! "  and  pass  on  to  another,  I  for  one  shall  not  be  in 
the  least  mortified.  If  you  say,  "  What  does  he  mean  by  calling 
this  paper  '  On  Two  Children  in  Black '  when  there's  nothing  about 
people  in  black  at  all,  unless  the  ladies  he  met  (and  evidently  bored) 
at  diimer  were  black  women  1  What  is  all  this  egotistical  pother  ] 
A  plague  on  his  I's  ! "  My  dear  fellow,  if  you  read  "  Montaigne's 
Essays,"  you  must  own  that  he  might  call  almost  any  one  by  the 
name  of  any  other,  and  that  an  essay  on  the  Moon  or  an  essay 
on  Green  Cheese  would  be  as  appropriate  a  title  as  one  of  his  on 
Coaches,  on  the  Art  of  Discoursing,  or  Experience,  or  what  you 
will.  Besides,  if  I  have  a  subject  (and  I  have),  I  claim  to  approach 
it  in  a  roundabout  manner. 

You  remember  Balzac's  tale  of  the  "  Peau  de  Chagrin,"  and  how 
every  time  the  possessor  used  it  for  tlie  accomplishment  of  some 
wish  the  fairy  peau  shrank  a  little  and  the  owner's  life  correspond- 
ingly shortened  1  I  have  such  a  desire  to  be  well  with  my  public 
that  I  am  actually  giving  up  my  favourite  story.  I  am  killing  my 
goose,  I  know  I  am.  I  can't  tell  my  stoi-y  of  the  children  in  black 
after  this ;  after  printing  it,  and  sending  it  through  the  country. 
When  they  are  gone  to  the  printer's  these  little  things  become 
public  property.  I  take  their  hands.  I  bless  them.  I  say, 
*'  Good-bye,  my  little  dears."     I  am  quite  sorry  to  part  with  them  ; 


ON    TWO    CHILDREN    IN    BLACK  183 

but  the  fact  is,  I  have  told  all  my  friends  about  them  already,  and 
don't  dare  to  take  them  about  with  me  any  more. 

Now  every  word  is  true  of  this  little  anecdote,  and  I  submit 
that  there  lies  in  it  a  most  curious  and  exciting  little  mystery. 
I  am  like  a  man  who  gives  you  the  last  bottle  of  his  '25  claret. 
It  is  the  pride  of  his  cellar ;  he  knows  it,  and  he  has  a  right  to 
praise  it.  He  takes  up  the  bottle,  fashioned  so  slenderly — takes 
it  up  tenderly,  cants  it  with  care,  places  it  before  his  friends, 
declares  how  good  it  is,  with  honest  pride,  and  wishes  he  had  a 
hundred  dozen  bottles  more  of  the  same  wine  in  his  cellar.  Si 
quid  novisti,  &c.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  from  you.  I  protest 
and  vow  I  am  giving  you  the  best  I  have. 

Well,  who  those  little  boys  in  black  were,  I  shall  never  probably 
know,  to  my  dying  day.  They  were  very  pretty  little  men,  with 
pale  faces,  and  large  melancholy  eyes ;  and  they  had  beautiful  little 
hands,  and  little  boots,  and  the  finest  little  shirts,  and  black  i)ale- 
tots  lined  with  the  richest  silk  ;  and  they  had  picture-books  in 
several  languages,  Englisli,  and  French,  and  German,  I  remember. 
Two  more  aristocratic-looking  little  men  I  never  set  eyes  on.  Tliey 
were  travelling  with  a  very  handsome  pale  lady  in  mourning,  and 
a  maid-servant  dressed  in  black,  too  ;  and  on  the  lady's  face  there 
was  the  deepest  grief.  The  little  boys  clambered  and  played  about 
the  carriage,  and  she  sat  watching.  It  was  a  railway-carriage  from 
Frankfort  to  Heidelberg. 

I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  the  mother  of  those  children,  and 
going  to  part  from  them.  Perhaps  I  have  tried  jiarting  with  my 
own,  and  not  found  the  business  very  i)leasant.  Perhaps  I  recollect 
driving  down  (witli  a  certain  trunk  and  carpet-bag  on  the  box) 
with  my  own  mother  to  tiie  end  of  the  avenue,  where  we  waited — 
only  a  few  minutes — until  the  whirring  wheels  of  that  "Defiance" 
coach  were  heard  rolling  towards  us  as  certain  as  death.  Twang 
goes  the  horn ;  up  goes  the  trunk ;  down  come  the  steps.  Bah  ! 
I  see  the  autumn  evening :  I  hear  the  wheels  now :  I  smart  the 
cruel  smart  again  :  and,  boy  or  man,  have  never  been  able  to  bear 
the  sight  of  people  parting  from  their  children. 

I  thought  these  little  men  might  be  going  to  school  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives ;  and  mamma  might  be  taking  them  to 
the  Doctor,  and  would  leave  them  with  many  fond  charges,  and 
little  wistful  secrets  of  love,  bidding  the  elder  to  protect  his  younger 
brother,  and  the  younger  to  be  gentle,  and  to  remember  to  pray  to 
God  always  for  his  mother,  who  would  pray  for  her  boy  too.  Our 
party  made  friends  with  these  young  ones  during  the  little  journey  ; 
but  the  poor  lady  was  too  sad  to  talk  excejjt  to  tlie  boys  now  and 
again,  and  sat  in  her  corner,  pale,  and  silently  looking  at  them. 


184  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

The  next  day,  we  saw  the  lady  and  her  maid  driving  in  the 
direction  of  the  railway-station,  without  the  boys.  The  parting 
had  taken  place,  then.  That  night  they  would  sleep  among 
strangers.  The  little  beds  at  home  were  vacant,  and  poor  mother 
might  go  and  look  at  them.  Well,  tears  flow,  and  friends  part, 
and  mothers  pray  every  night  all  over  tlie  world.  I  daresay  we 
went  to  see  Heidelberg  Castle,  and  admired  the  vast  shattered 
walls,  and  quaint  gables ;  and  the  Neckar  running  its  bright  course 
tlirough  that  charming  scene  of  peace  and  beauty ;  and  ate  our 
dinner,  and  drank  our  wine  with  relish.  The  poor  mother  would 
eat  but  little  Ahendessen  that  night ;  and,  as  for  the  children — 
that  first  night  at  school — hard  bed,  hard  words,  strange  boys 
bullying,  and  laughing,  and  jarring  you  with  their  hateful  merriment 
— ^as  for  the  first  night  at  a  strange  school,  we  most  of  us  remember 
what  that  is.  And  the  first  is  not  the  worst,  my  boys,  there's 
the  rub.  But  each  man  has  his  share  of  troubles,  and,  I  suppose, 
you  must  have  yours. 

From  Heidelberg  we  Avent  to  Baden-Baden  :  and,  I  daresay, 
saw  Madame  de  Schlangenbad  and  Madame  de  la  Cruchecassde, 
and  Count  Punter,  and  honest  Captain  Blackball.  And  whom 
should  we  see  in  the  evening  but  our  two  little  boys,  walking  on 
eai^h  side  of  a  fierce,  yellow-faced,  bearded  man  !  We  wanted  to 
renew  our  acquaintance  with  them,  and  they  were  coming  forward 
quite  pleased  to  greet  us.  But  the  father  pulled  back  one  of  the 
little  men  by  his  paletot,  gave  a  grim  scowl,  and  walked  away. 
I  can  see  the  children  now  looking  rather  frightened  away  from 
us  and  up  into  the  fiither's  face,  or  the  cruel  uncle's — which  was 
he?  I  think  he  was  the  father.  So  this  was  the  end  of  them. 
Not  school,  as  I  at  first  had  imagined.  The  mother  was  gone,  who 
had  given  them  the  heaps  of  pretty  books,  and  the  pretty  studs 
in  the  shirts,  and  the  pretty  silken  clotlies,  and  the  tender — tender 
cares  ;  and  they  were  handed  to  this  scowling  practitioner  of  Trente- 
et-Quarante.  Ah  !  this  is  worse  than  school.  Poor  little  men  ! 
poor  mother  sitting  by  the  vacant  little  beds  !  We  saw  the  children 
once  or  twice  after,  always  in  Scowler's  company ;  but  we  did  not 
dare  to  give  each  other  any  marks  of  recognition. 

From  Baden  we  went  to  Basle,  and  thence  to  Lucerne,  and  so 
over  the  Saint  Gothard  into  Italy.  From  Milan  we  went  to  Venice; 
and  now  comes  the  singular  part  of  my  story.  In  Venice  there  is 
a  little  court  of  which  I  forget  the  name:  but  in  it  is  an  apothecary's 
shop,  whither  I  went  to  buy  some  remedy  for  the  bites  of  certain 
animals  which  abound  in  Venice.  Crawling  animals,  skipping 
animals,  and  humming  flying  animals ;  all  three  will  have  at  you 
at  once ;  and   one  night   nearly  drove  me  into  a  strait-waistcoat 


^^^^^OTwf^T  ^^l  '■■' 


FATHKK,   OR    UNCLE? 


ON    TWO    CHILDREN    IN    BLACK  185 

Well,  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  apothecary's  with  the  liottle  of 
spirits  of  hartshorn  in  my  hand  (it  really  does  do  the  bites  a  great 
deal  of  good),  whom  should  I  light  upon  but  one  of  my  little 
Heidelberg-Baden  boys ! 

I  have  said  how  handsomely  they  were  dressed  as  long  as  they 
were  witli  their  mother.  When  I  saw  the  lioy  at  Venice,  who 
perfectly  recognised  me,  his  only  garb  Avas  a  wretched  yellow 
cotton  gown.  His  little  feet,  on  which  I  had  admired  the  little 
shiny  boots,  were  unthout  shoe  or  stocJiiiuj.  He  looked  at  me,  ran 
to  an  old  hag  of  a  woman,  who  seized  his  hand ;  and  with  her  he 
disappeared  down  one  of  the  thronged  lanes  of  the  city. 

From  Venice  we  went  to  Trieste  (the  Vienna  railway  at  that 
time  was  only  opened  as  far  as  Laybach,  and  the  magnificent 
Semmering  Pass  was  not  quite  completed).  At  a  station  between 
Laybach  and  Graetz,  one  of  my  companions  alighted  for  refreshment, 
and  came  back  to  the  carriage  saying : — 

"  There's  that  horril)le  man  from  Baden  with  the  two  little 
boys." 

Of  course,  we  had  talked  about  the  appearance  of  the  little  boy 
at  Venice,  and  his  strangely  altered  garb.  My  companion  said 
they  were  pale,  wretched-looking,  and  dressed  quite  sh(djbily. 

I  got  out  at  several  stations,  and  looked  at  all  the  carriages. 
I  could  not  see  my  little  men.  From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never 
set  eyes  on  them.  That  is  all  my  story.  Who  were  they  1  What 
could  they  be "?  How  can  you  explain  tliat  mystery  of  tiie  mother 
giving  them  up ;  of  the  remarkable  splendour  and  elegance  of  their 
appearance  while  under  her  care ;  of  their  barefooted  squalor  in 
Venice,  a  month  afterwards ;  of  their  shabby  habiliments  at 
Laybach'?  Had  the  father  gambled  away  his  money,  and  sold 
their  clothes'?  How  came  they  to  have  passed  out  of  the  hands  of 
a  refined  lady  (as  she  evidently  was,  with  whom  I  first  saw  them) 
into  the  charge  of  quite  a  common  woman  like  her  with  whom  I 
saw  one  of  the  boys  at  Venice'?  Here  is  but  one  chapter  of  the 
story.  Can  any  man  write  the  next,  or  that  preceding  the  strange 
one  on  which  I  happened  to  light?  AVho  knows'?  the  mystery 
may  have  some  quite  simple  solution.  I  saw  two  children,  attired 
like  little  i)rinces,  taken  from  tlieir  mother  and  consigned  to  other 
care ;  and  a  fortnight  afterwards,  one  of  them .  barefooted  and 
like  a  beggar.  Who  will  read  this  riddle  of  The  Two  Children 
in  Black? 


THE  LAST  SKETCH 


NOT  many  days  since  I  went  to  visit  a  house  where  in  former 
years  I  had  received  many  a  friendly  welcome.  We  went 
into  the  owner's — an  artist's — studio.  Prints,  pictures,  and 
sketches  hung  on  the  walls  as  I  had  last  seen  and  remembered  them. 
The  implements  of  the  painter's  art  were  there.  The  light  which 
had  shone  upon  so  many  many  hours  of  patient  and  cheerful  toil 
poured  through  the  northern  window  upon  print  and  bust,  lay 
figure  and  sketch,  and  upon  tiie  easel  before  which  the  good,  the 
gentle,  tlie  beloved  Leslie  laboured.  In  this  room  the  busy  brain 
had  devised,  and  the  skilful  hand  executed,  I  know  not  how  many 
of  the  noble  works  which  have  delighted  the  world  with  their  beauty 
and  charming  humour.  Here  the  poet  called  up  into  pictorial 
presence,  and  informed  with  life,  grace,  beauty,  infinite  friendly 
mirth  and  wondrous  naturalness  of  expression,  the  people  of  whom 
liis  dear  books  told  him  the  stories, — his  Sliakspeare,  his  Cervantes, 
his  Molike,  his  Le  Sage.  There  was  liis  last  work  on  the  easel — 
a  beautiful  fresh  smiling  shape  of  Titania,  such  as  his  sweet  guile- 
less fancy  imagined  the  2Iidsammer  Night's  queen  to  be.  Gracious, 
and  pure,  and  briglit,  the  sweet  smiling  image  glimmers  on  the 
canvas.  Fairy  elves,  no  doubt,  were  to  have  been  grouped  around 
their  mistress  in  laughing  clusters.  Honest  Bottom's  grotesque 
head  and  form  are  indicated  as  reposing  by  the  side  of  the  consum- 
mate beauty.  The  darkling  forest  would  have  grown  around  them, 
with  the  stars  glittering  from  the  midsummer  sky :  the  flowers  at 
the  queen's  feet,  and  the  boughs  and  foliage  about  her,  would  have 
been  peopled  with  gambolling  sprites  and  fays.  They  were  dwelling 
in  the  artist's  mind  no  doulit,  and  would  have  been  developed  by 
that  patient,  faitliful,  admirable  genius  :  but  the  busy  brain  stopped 
working,  tlie  skilful  hand  fell  lifeless,  the  loving  honest  heart  ceased 
to  beat.  What  was  she  to  have  been — that  fair  Titania — when 
perfected  by  the  patient  skill  of  the  poet,  who  in  imagination  saw 
the  sweet  innocent  figure,  and  with  tender  courtesy  and  caresses,  as 
it  were,  posed  and  shaped  and  traced  the  fair  form  1  Is  there  record 
kept  anywhere  of  fancies  (conceived,  beautiful,  unborn'?     Some  day 


THE    LAST    SKETCH  187 

will  they  assume  form  in  some  jx't  undeveloped  light "?  K  our  bad 
imspoken  tlioughts  are  registered  against  us,  and  are  written  in  the 
awful  account,  will  not  the  good  thoughts  unspoken,  the  love  and 
tenderness,  the  pity,  beauty,  charity,  whi(;h  i)ass  through  the  breast, 
and  cause  the  heart  to  throb  with  silent  good,  find  a  remembrance 
too?  A  few  weeks  more,  and  this  lovely  offspring  of  the  poet's 
conception  would  have  been  complete — to  charm  the  world  with 
its  beautiful  mirth.  May  there  not  be  some  sphere  unknown  to  us 
where  it  may  have  an  existence  ?  They  say  our  words,  once  out  of 
our  lips,  go  travelling  in  omne  cHvum,  reverberating  for  ever  and 
ever.  If  our  words,  why  not  our  thoughts'?  If  the  Has  Been,  why 
not  the  Might  Have  Been  ? 

Some  day  our  spirits  may  be  permitted  to  walk  in  galleries  of 
fancies  more  wondrous  and  beautiful  than  any  achieved  works  which 
at  present  we  see,  and  our  minds  to  behc^ld  and  delight  in  mastei- 
pieces  which  poets'  and  artists'  minds  have  fathered  and  conceived 
only. 

With  a  feeling  much  akin  to  that  with  which  I  looked  upon  the 
friend's — the  admirable  artist's — unfinished  work  I  can  fancy  many 
readers  turning  to  the  last  pages  which  were  traced  by  Charlotte 
Bronte's  hand.  Of  the  multitude  that  have  read  her  books,  who 
has  not  known  and  deplored  the  tragedy  of  her  family,  her  own 
most  sad  and  untimely  fate  1  Wliich  of  her  readers  has  not  become 
her  friend?  Who  that  has  known  her  books  has  not  admired  the 
artist's  noble  English,  the  burning  love  of  truth,  the  bravery,  the 
simplicity,  the  indignation  at  wrong,  the  eager  sympathy,  the  pious 
love  and  reverence,  the  passionate  honour,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
woman?  What  a  story  is  that  of  that  fomily  of  poets  in  their 
solitude  yonder  on  the  gloomy  northern  moors  !  At  nine  o'clock  at 
night,  Mrs.  Gaskell  tells,  after  evening  prayers,  when  their  guardian 
and  relative  had  gone  to  bed,  the  three  poetesses — the  three  maidens, 
Charlotte,  and  Emily,  and  Anne — Charlotte  being  the  "  motherly 
friend  and  guardian  to  the  other  two" — "began,  like  restless  wild 
animals,  to  pace  up  and  down  their  jmrlour,  '  making  out '  their 
wonderful  stories,  talking  over  jdans  and  jirojects,  and  thoughts  of 
what  was  to  be  their  future  life." 

One  evening,  at  the  close  of  185-1,  as  Charlotte  Nicholls  sat 
with  her  husband  Viy  the  fire,  listening  to  the  howling  of  the  wind 
about  the  house,  she  suddenly  said  to  her  husband,  "  If  you  had 
not  been  with  me,  I  must  have  been  writing  now."  She  then  ran 
upstairs,  and  brought  down,  and  read  aloud,  tlie  beginning  of  a  new 
tale.  When  she  had  finished,  her  husbaml  remarked,  "  The  critics 
will  accuse  you  of  repetition."  She  replied,  "  Oh,  I  shall  alter  that. 
I  always  begin  two  or  three  times  before  I  can  please  myself."    But 


188  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

it  was  not  to  be.  The  treinbling  little  hand  was  to  write  no  more. 
Tlie  heart  newly  awakened  to  love  and  happiness,  and  throbbing 
with  maternal  hope,  was  soon  to  cease  to  beat ;  that  intrepid  out- 
speaker  and  champion  of  truth,  that  eager  impetuous  redresser  of 
wrong,  was  to  be  called  out  of  the  world's  fight  and  struggle,  to  lay 
down  the  shining  arms,  and  to  be  removed  to  a  sphere  where  even  a 
noble  indignation  cor  uUerius  nequit  lacerare,  and  where  truth  com- 
plete, and  right  triumphant,  no  longer  need  to  wage  war. 

I  can  only  say  of  this  lady,  vidi  tanturn.  I  saw  her  first  just 
as  I  rose  out  of  an  illness  from  which  I  had  never  thought  to 
recover.  I  remember  the  trembling  little  frame,  the  little  hand, 
the  great  honest  eyes.  An  impetuous  honesty  seemed  to  me  to 
characterise  the  woman.  Twice  I  recollect  she  took  me  to  task  for 
what  she  held  to  be  errors  in  doctrine.  Once  about  Fielding  we 
had  a  disputation.  She  spoke  her  mind  out.  She  jumped  too 
rapitlly  to  conclusions.  (I  have  smiled  at  one  or  two  passages  in 
tlie  "  Biography,"  in  which  my  own  disposition  or  behaviour  forms 
the  subject  of  talk.)  She  formed  conclusions  that  might  be  wrong 
and  built  up  whole  theories  of  character  upon  them.  New  to  the 
London  world,  she  entered  it  with  an  independent  indomitable 
spirit  of  her  own  ;  and  judged  of  contemporaries,  and  especially 
spied  out  arrogance  or  aifectation,  with  extraordinary  keenness  of 
vision.  She  was  angry  with  her  favourites  if  their  conduct  or 
conversation  fell  below  her  ideal.  Often  she  seemed  to  me  to  be 
judging  the  London  folk  prematurely  :  but  perhaps  the  city  is  rather 
angry  at  being  judged.  I  fancied  an  austere  little  Joan  of  Arc 
marching  in  upon  us,  and  rebuking  our  easy  lives,  our  easy  morals. 
She  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  a  very  pure,  and  lofty,  and 
high-minded  person.  A  great  and  holy  reverence  of  right  and 
truth  seemed  to  be  with  her  always.  Such,  in  our  brief  interview, 
she  appeared  to  me.  As  one  thinks  of  that  life  so  noble,  so  lonely — 
of  that  passion  for  truth — of  those  nights  and  niglite  of  eager 
study,  swaniiing  fancies,  invention,  depression,  elation,  prayer ;  as 
one  reads  the  necessarily  incomplete,  though  most  touching  and 
admirable  history  of  the  heart  that  throbbed  in  this  one  little 
frame — of  this  one  amongst  the  myriads  of  souls  that  have  lived 
and  died  on  this  great  earth — this  great  earth  1 — this  little  speck 
in  the  infinite  universe  of  God, — ^with  what  wonder  do  we  think  of 
to-day,  with  what  awe  await  to-morrow,  when  that  which  is  now 
but  darkly  seen  shall  be  clear !  As  I  read  this  little  fragmentary 
sketch,  I  think  of  the  rest.  Is  it  1  And  where  is  it  ?  Will  not 
the  leaf  be  turned  some  day,  and  the  story  be  told?  Shall  the 
deviser  of  the  tale  somewhere  perfect  the  history  of  little  Emma's 
griefs  and  troubles  1     Shall  Titania  come  forth  complete  with  her 


THE    LAST    SKETCH  189 

sportive  court,  with  the  flowers  at  her  ieet,  the  forest  around  her, 
and  all  the  stars  of  summer  glittering  f)verhead  1- 

How  well  I  remember  the  delight,  and  wonder,  and  pleasure 
with  which  I  read  "  Jane  Eyre,"  sent  to  me  by  an  author  whose 
name  and  sex  were  then  alike  unknown  to  me ;  the  strange 
fascinations  of  the  book  ;  and  how  with  my  own  work  pressing 
upon  me,  I  could  not,  having  taken  the  volumes  up,  lay  them 
down  until  they  were  read  through  !  Hundreds  of  those  who,  like 
myself,  recognised  and  admired  that  master-work  of  a  great  genius, 
will  look  with  a  mournful  interest  and  regard  and  curiosity  upon 
the  last  fragmentary  sketch  from  the  noble  hand  which  wrote 
"  Jane  Eyre." 


ON  RIBBONS 


THE  uncle  of  tlic  present  Sir  Louis  N.  Bonaparte,  K.G.,  &c,, 
inaugurated  his  reign  as  Emperor  over  the  neighbouring 
nation  by  establishing  an  Order,  to  which  all  citizens  of  his 
country,  military,  naval,  and  civil — all  men  most  distinguished  in 
science,  letters,  arts,  and  commerce — were  admitted.  The  emblem 
of  the  Order  was  but  a  piece  of  ribbon,  more  or  less  long  or  broad, 
with  a  toy  at  the  end  of  it.  The  Bourbons  had  toys  and  ribbons 
of  their  own,  blue,  black,  and  all-coloured  ;  and  on  their  return  to 
dominion  such  good  old  Tories  would  naturally  have  preferred  to 
restore  their  good  old  Orders  of  Saint  Louis,  Saint  Esprit,  and 
Saint  Michel ;  but  France  had  taken  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  so  to  her  heart  that  no  Bourbon  sovereign  dared  to  pluck 
it  thence. 

In  England,  until  very  late  days,  we  have  been  accustomed 
rather  to  pooh-pooh  national  Orders,  to  vote  ribbons  and  crosses 
tinsel  gewgaws,  foolish  foreign  ornaments,  and  so  forth.  It  is 
known  how  the  Great  Duke  (the  breast  of  whose  own  coat  was 
plastered  witli  some  half-iuuidred  decorations)  was  averse  to  the 
wearing  of  ribbons,  medals,  clasps,  and  the  like  by  his  army.  We 
have  all  of  us  read  how  uncommonly  distinguished  Lord  Castlereagh 
looked  at  Vienna,  wliere  he  was  the  only  gentleman  present  without 
any  decoration  whatever.  And  tlie  Great  Duke's  theory  was  that 
clasps  and  ribbons,  stars  and  garters,  were  good  and  proper  orna- 
ments for  himself,  for  the  chief  officers  of  his  distinguished  army, 
and  for  gentlemen  of  high  birth,  who  might  naturally  claim  to  wear 
a  band  of  garter  blue  across  their  waistcoats ;  but  that  for  common 
people  your  plain  coat,  without  stars  and  ribbons,  was  the  most 
sensible  wear. 

And  no  doubt  you  and  I  are  as  happy,  as  free,  as  comfortable ; 
we  can  walk  and  dine  as  Avell ;  we  can  keep  the  winter's  cold  out 
as  well  without  a  star  on  our  coats,  as  without  a  feather  in  our 
hats.  How  often  we  have  laughed  at  the  absurd  mania  of  the 
Americans  for  dubbing  their  senators,  members  of  Congress,  and 
States'  representatives,  Honourable !     We  have  a  right  to  call  our 


ON    RIBBONS  191 

Privy  Councillors  Right  Honourable,  our  Lords'  sons  Honourable, 
and  so  forth  :  but  for  a  nation  as  numerous,  well-educated,  strong, 
rich,  civilised,  free  as  our  own,  to  dare  to  give  its  distinguished 
citizens  titles  of  honour^ — monstrous  assumption  of  low-bred  arro- 
gance and  jmrvenu  vanity  I  Our  titles  arc  respectable,  but  theirs 
absurd.  Mr.  Jones,  of  London,  a  Chancellor's  son,  and  a  tailor's 
grandson,  is  justly  Honourable,  and  entitled  to  be  Lord  Jones  at 
his  noble  father's  decease  :  but  Mr.  Brown,  the  senator  from  New 
York,  is  a  silly  upstart  for  tacking  Honourable  to  his  name,  and 
our  sturdy  British  good  sense  laughs  at  him.  Who  has  not  laughed 
(I  have  myself)  at  Honourable  Nahum  Dodge,  Honourable  Zeno 
Scudder,  Honourable  Hiram  Boake,  and  the  rest  ?  A  score  of  such 
queer  names  and  titles  I  have  smiled  at  in  America.  And,  mufato 
nomine  ?  I  meet  a  born  idiot,  who  is  a  ijeer  and  born  legislator. 
This  drivelling  noodle  and  his  descendants  thiough  life  are  your 
natural  superiors  and  mine — your  and  my  children's  superiors.  I 
read  of  an  alderman  kneeling  and  knighted  at  Court :  I  see  a  Gold- 
stick  waddling  backwards  before  Majesty  in  a  procession  ;  and  if 
Vi'e  laugh,  don't  you  suppose  the  Americans  laugh  too  1 

Yes,  stars,  garters,  orders,  knighthoods,  and  the  like,  are  folly. 
Yes,  Bobus,  citizen  and  soapboiler,  is  a  good  man,  and  no  one 
laughs  at  him  or  good  Mrs.  Bobus,  as  tliey  have  their  dinner  at 
one  o'clock.  But  who  will  not  jeer  at  Sir  Thomas  on  a  melting 
day,  and  Lady  Bobus,  at  Margate,  eating  shrimps  in  a  donkey- 
chaise  1  Yes,  knighthood  is  absurd  :  and  chivalry  an  idiotic  super- 
stition :  and  Sir  Walter  Manny  was  a  zany  :  and  Nelson,  with  his 
flaming  stars  and  cordons,  splendent  upon  a  day  of  battle,  was  a 
madman  :  and  Murat,  with  his  crosses  and  orders,  at  the  head  of 
his  s(iuadrons  charging  victorious,  was  only  a  crazy  mountebank, 
who  had  been  a  tavern-waiter,  and  was  puffed  up  with  absurd 
vanity  about  his  dress  and  legs.  And  the  men  of  the  French  line 
at  Fontenoy,  who  told  Messieurs  do  la  Garde  to  fire  first,  were 
smirking  French  dancing-masters  ;  and  tlie  Black  Prince,  waiting 
xipon  his  Royal  prisoner,  was  acting  an  inane  masquerade  :  and 
Chivalry  is  naught ;  and  Honour  is  humbug ;  and  Gentlemanhood 
is  an  extinct  folly  :  and  Ambition  is  madness  :  and  desire  of  distinc- 
tion is  criminal  vanity  ;  and  glory  is  bosh  ;  and  fair  fame  is  idleness  ; 
and  nothing  is  true  but  two  and  two ;  and  the  colour  of  all  the 
world  is  drab  ;  and  all  men  are  equal :  and  one  man  is  as  tall  as 
another ;  and  one  man  is  as  good  as  another — and  a  great  dale 
betther,  as  the  Irish  philosopher  said. 

Is  this  ml  Titles  and  badges  of  honour  are  vanity  :  and  in 
the  American  Revolution  you  have  his  Excellency  General  Washing- 
ton sending  back,  and  with  proper  s])irit  sending  back,  a  letter  in 


192  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

which  he  is  not  addressed  as  Excellency  and  General.  Titles  are 
abolished ;  and  the  American  Republic  swarms  with  men  claiming 
and  bearing  them.  You  have  the  French  soldier  cheered  and  happy 
in  his  dying  agony,  and  kissing  with  frantic  joy  the  chief's  hand 
who  lays  the  little  cross  on  the  bleeding  bosom.  At  home  you 
have  the  Dukes  and  Earls  jobbing  and  intriguing  for  the  Garter ; 
the  Military  Knights  grumbling  at  the  Civil  Knights  of  the  Bath ; 
the  little  ribbon  eager  for  the  collar ;  the  soldiers  and  seamen  from 
India  and  the  Crimea  marching  in  procession  before  the  Queen,  and 
receiving  from  her  hands  the  cross  bearing  her  Royal  name.  And, 
remember,  there  are  not  only  the  cross-wearers,  but  all  the  fathers 
and  friends ;  all  the  women  who  have  prayed  for  their  absent 
heroes ;  Harry's  wife,  and  Tom's  mother,  and  Jack's  daughter,  and 
Frank's  sweetheart,  each  of  whom  wears  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
afterwards  the  badge  which  son,  lather,  lover,  has  won  by  his 
merit ;  each  of  whom  is  made  happy  and  proud,  and  is  bound  to 
the  country  by  that  little  bit  of  ribbon. 

I  have  heard,  in  a  lecture  about  George  the  Third,  that,  at  his 
accession,  the  King  had  a  mind  to  establish  an  order  for  literary 
men.  It  was  to  have  been  called  the  Order  of  Minerva — I  suppose 
with  an  Owl  for  a  badge.  The  knights  were  to  have  worn  a  star  of 
sixteen  points,  and  a  yellow  ribbon ;  and  good  old  Samuel  Johnson 
was  talked  of  as  President,  or  Grand  Cross,  or  Grand  Owl,  of  the 
society.  Now  about  such  an  order  as  this  there  certainly  may  be 
doubts.  Consider  the  claimants,  the  difficulty  of  settling  their 
claims,  the  rows  and  squabbles  amongst  the  candidates,  and  the 
subsequent  decision  of  posterity  !  Dr.  Beattie  would  have  ranked 
as  first  poet,  and  twenty  years  after  the  sublime  Mr.  Hayley  would, 
no  doubt,  liave  claimed  the  Grand  Cross.  Mr.  Gibbon  would  not 
have  been  eligible,  on  account  of  his  dangerous  free-thinking  opinions  ; 
and  her  sex,  as  well  as  her  republican  sentiments,  might  have  inter- 
fered with  the  knighthood  of  the  immortal  Mrs.  Catharine  Macaulay. 
How  Goldsmith  would  have  paraded  the  ribbon  at  Madame  Cor- 
nelys's,  or  the  Academy  dinner  !  How  Peter  Pindar  would  have 
railed  at  it !  Fifty  years  later,  the  noble  Scott  would  have  worn 
the  Grand  Cross  and  deserved  it ;  but  Gilford  would  have  had  it ; 
and  Byron,  and  Shelley,  and  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt  would  have  been 
without  it ;  and  had  Keats  been  proposed  as  officer,  how  the  Tory 
prints  would  have  yelled  with  rage  and  scorn  !  Had  the  star  of 
Minerva  lasted  to  our  present  time— —but  I  pause,  not  because 
the  idea  is  dazzling,  but  too  awful.  Fancy  the  claimants,  and  the 
row  about  their  precedence  !  "Which  philosopher  shall  have  the 
gran<l  cordon  1 — which  the  collar  ? — which  the  little  scrap  no  bigger 
than  a  buttercup  1     Of  the  historians — A,  say, — and  C,  and  F,  and 


ON    RIBBONS  193 

G,  and  S,  and  T, — which  shall  be  Companion  and  which  Grand 
Owl  ?  Of  the  poets,  who  wears,  or  claims,  the  largest  and  brightest 
star  ?  Of  the  novelists,  there  is  A,  and  B  and  C  D  ;  and  E  (star 
of  first  magnitude,  newly  discovered),  and  F  (a  magazine  of  wit), 
and  fair  G,  and  H,  and  I,  and  brave  old  J,  and  charming  K,  and  L, 
and  M,  and  N,  and  0  (fair  twinklers),  and  I  am  puzzled  between 
three  P's — Peacock,  Miss  Pardoe,  and  Paul  Pry — and  Queechy, 
and  R,  and  S,  and  T,  mere  et  Jils,  and  very  likely  U,  0  gentle 
reader,  for  who  has  not  written  his  novel  nowadays  ? — who  has  not 
a  claim  to  the  star  and  straw-coloured  ribbon  1 — and  who  shall  have 
the  biggest  and  largest  1  Fancy  the  struggle  !  Fancy  the  squabble  ! 
Fancy  the  distribution  of  prizes  ! 

Who  shall  decide  on  them  ?  Shall  it  be  the  Sovereign  1  shall  it 
be  the  Minister  for  the  time  being  1  and  has  Lord  Palmerston  made 
a  deep  study  of  novels  1  In  this  matter  the  late  Ministry,*  to  be 
sure,  was  better  qualified ;  but  even  then,  grumblers  who  had  not 
got  their  canary  cordons,  would  have  hinted  at  professional  jealousies 
entering  the  Cabinet ;  and,  the  ribbons  being  awarded.  Jack  would 
have  scowled  at  his  because  Dick  had  a  broader  one ;  Ned  been 
indignant  because  Bob's  was  as  large ;  Tom  would  have  thrust  his 
into  the  drawer,  and  scorned  to  wear  it  at  all.  No — no :  the  so- 
called  literary  world  was  well  rid  of  Minerva  and  her  yellow  ribbon. 
The  great  poets  would  have  been  indifferent,  the  little  poets  jealous, 
the  funny  men  furious,  the  philosophers  satirical,  the  historians 
supercilious,  and,  finally,  the  jobs  without  end.  Say,  ingenuity  and 
cleverness  are  to  be  rewarded  by  State  tokens  and  prizes — and  take 
for  granted  the  Order  of  Minerva  is  established— who  shall  have  iti 
A  great  pliilosopher  1  no  doubt  we  cordially  salute  him  G.C.M.  A 
great  historian'?  G.C.M.  of  course.  A  great  engineer?  G.C.M. 
A  great  poet?  received  with  acclamation  G.C.M.  A  great  painter? 
oh  !  certainly,  G.C.M.  If  a  great  painter,  why  not  a  great  novelist? 
Well,  pass,  great  novelist,  G.C.M.  But  if  a  poetic,  a  pictorial,  a 
story-telling  or  music-composing  artist,  why  not  a  singing  artist  ? 
Why  not  a  basso-profondo  ?  Why  not  a  primo  tenore  ?  And  if  a 
singer,  why  should  not  a  ballet-dancer  come  bounding  on  the  stage 
with  his  cordon,  and  cut  capers  to  the  music  of  a  row  of  decorated 
fiddlers  ?  A  chemist  puts  in  his  claim  for  having  invented  a  new 
colour ;  an  apothecary  for  a  new  pill ;  the  cook  for  a  new  sauce ; 
the  tailor  for  a  new  cut  of  trousers.  We  have  brought  the  star 
of  Minerva  down  from  the  breast  to  the  pantaloons.  Stars  and 
garters !  can  we  go  any  fiirther ;  or  shall  we  give  the  shoemaker 
the  yellow  ribbon  of  the  order  for  his  shoe-tie  1 

•  That  of  Lord  Derby,  in  1859,  which  included  Mr.  Disraeli  and  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton. 
13 


194  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

When  I  began  this  present  Ptoundabout  excursion,  I  think  I 
had  not  quite  made  up  my  mind  whether  we  would  have  an  Order 
of  all  the  Talents  or  not :  perhaps  I  rather  had  a  hankering  for  a 
rich  ribbon  and  gorgeous  star,  in  whicli  my  family  might  like  to 
see  me  at  parties  in  my  best  Avaistcoat.  But  then  the  door  opens, 
and  there  come  in,  and  by  the  same  right  too.  Sir  Alexis  Soyer ! 
Sir  Alessandro  Tamburini !  Sir  Agostino  Velluti !  Sir  Antonio 
Paganiui  (violinist)  !  Sir  Sandy  McGuffog  (piper  to  the  most  noble 
the  Marquis  of  Farintosh)  !  Sir  Alcide  Flicflac  (premier  danseur  of 
H.M.  Theatre)!  Sir  Harley  Quin  and  Sir  Joseph  Grimaldi  (from 
Covent  Garden) !  They  have  all  the  yellow  ribbon.  They  are  all 
honourable,  and  clever,  and  distinguished  artists.  Let  us  elbow 
through  the  rooms,  make  a  bow  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  give  a 
nod  to  Sir  George  Thrum,  who  is  leading  the  orchestra,  and  go  and 
get  some  champagne  and  seltzer-water  from  Sir  Richard  Gunter, 
who  is  presiding  at  the  buffet.  A  national  decoration  might  be 
well  and  good :  a  token  awarded  by  tlie  country  to  all  its  hene- 
vierentibus  :  but  most  gentlemen  with  Minerva  stars  would,  I  think, 
be  inclined  to  wear  very  wide  breast-collars  to  their  coats.  Suppose 
yourself,  brother  penman,  decorated  with  this  ribbon,  and  looking 
in  tlie  glass,  would  you  not  laugh  1  Would  not  wife  and  daughters 
laugh  at  that  canary-coloured  emblem  1 

But  suppose  a  man,  old  or  young,  of  figure  ever  so  stout, 
thin,  stumpy,  homely,  indulging  in  looking-glass  reflections  with 
that  hideous  ribbon  and  cross  called  V.G.  on  his  coat,  would  he  not 
be  proud  1  and  his  family,  woidd  not  they  be  prouder  1  For  your 
nobleman  there  is  the  famous  old  blue  garter  and  star,  and  welcome. 
If  I  were  a  marquis — if  I  had  tliirty — forty  thousand  a  year  (settle 
the  sum,  ray  dear  Alnaschar,  according  to  your  liking),  I  sliould 
consider  myself  entitled  to  my  seat  in  Parliament  and  to  my  garter. 
The  garter  belongs  to  the  Ornamental  Classes.  Have  you  seen  the 
new  magnificent  Pavo  spicifer  at  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  do 
you  grudge  him  his  jewelled  coronet,  and  the  azure  splendour  of 
his  waistcoat  1  I  like  my  Lord  Mayor  to  have  a  gilt  coach  ;  my 
magnificent  monarch  to  be  surrounded  by  magnificent  nobles :  I 
huzzay  respectfully  when  they  pass  in  procession.  It  is  good  for 
Mr.  Briefless  (50  Pump  Court,  fourth  floor),  that  there  should  be  a 
Lord  Chancellor,  with  a  gold  robe  and  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  It 
is  good  for  a  poor  curate  that  there  should  be  splendid  bishops  at 
Fuiham  and  Lambeth  :  their  Lordships  were  poor  curates  once,  and 
have  won,  so  to  speak,  their  ribbon.  Is  a  man  who  puts  into  a 
lottery  to  be  sulky  because  he  does  not  win  the  twenty  thousand 
]ioun(ls  prize  1  Am  I  to  fall  into  a  rage,  and  bully  my  family  when 
I  come  home,  after  going  to  see  Chatsworth  or  Windsor,  because  we 


ON    EIBBONS  195 

have  only  two  little  drawing-rooms  1  Welcome  to  your  garter,  my 
Lord,  and  shame  upon  him  qui  mal  y  2jense  ! 

So  I  arrive  in  my  roundabout  way  near  the  point  towards  which 
I  have  been  trotting  ever  since  we  set  out. 

In  a  voyage  to  America,  some  nine  years  since,  on  the  seventh 

or  eighth  day  out  from  Liverpool,  Captain  L came  to  dinner  at 

eight  bells  as  usual,  talked  a  little  to  tlie  persons  right  and  left  of 
him,  and  helped  the  soup  M'ith  his  accustomed  politeness.  Tlien  he 
went  on  deck,  and  was  back  in  a  minute,  and  operated  on  the  fish, 
looking  ratlicr  grave  the  v^dli]c. 

Then  he  went  on  deck  again  ;  and  this  time  was  absent,  it  may 
be,  three  or  five  minutes,  during  wliicli  the  fish  disappeared,  and 
the  entrees  arrived,  and  the  roast  beef.  Say  ten  minutes  passed — 
I  can't  tell  after  nine  years. 

Then  L came  down  with  a  pleased  and  happy  countenance 

this  time,  and  began  carving  the  sirloin :  "We  have  seen  the  light," 
he  said.  "  Madam,  may  I  help  you  to  a  little  gravy,  or  a  little 
horseradish  1 "  or  what  not  1 

I  forget  the  name  of  the  light  ;  nor  does  it  matter.  It  was  a 
point  oft'  Newfoundland  for  Avhich  he  was  on  the  look-out,  and  so 
well  did  the  Canada  know  where  she  was,  that,  between  soup 
and  beef,  the  captain  had  sighted  the  headland  by  which  his  course 
was  lying. 

And  so  through  storm  and  darkness,  through  fog  and  nndnight, 
the  ship  had  pursued  her  steady  way  over  the  pathless  ocean  and 
roaring  seas,  so  surely  that  the  officers  who  sailed  her  knew  her 
place  within  a  minute  or  two,  and  guided  us  with  a  wonderful 
providence  safe  on  our  way.  Since  the  noble  Cunard  Company  hns 
run  its  ships,  but  one  accident,  and  that  through  the  error  of  a  ])ilot, 
has  happened  on  the  line. 

By  tins  little  incident  (hourly  of  course  repeated,  and  trivial  to 
all  sea-going  people)  I  own  I  was  immensely  moved,  and  never  can 
think  of  it  but  with  a  heart  full  of  thanks  and  awe.  We  trust  our 
lives  to  these  seamen,  and  how  nobly  they  fulfil  their  trust !  They 
are,  under  Heaven,  as  a  providence  for  us.  Whilst  we  sleep,  their 
untiring  watchfulness  keeps  guard  over  us.  All  night  through  that 
bell  sounds  at  its  season,  and  tells  how  our  seiitinels  defend  us.  It 
rang  when  the  Amazon  was  on  fire,  and  chimed  its  heroic  signal 
of  duty,  and  courage,  and  honour.  Think  of  the  dangers  these  sea- 
men undergo  for  us :  the  hourly  peril  and  watch ;  the  familiar 
storm  ;  the  dreadful  iceberg  ;  the  long  winter  nights  when  the  decks 
are  as  glass,  and  the  sailor  has  to  climb  through  icicles  to  bend  the 
stiff  sail  on  the  yard  !  Think  of  their  courage  and  their  kindnesses 
in   cold,   in    tempest,    in   hunger,   in   wreck !       "  The   women    and 


196  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

fliildren  to  the  boats,"  says  the  captain  of  the  Birkenhead,  and. 
with  the  troops  formed  on  the  deck,  and  the  crew  obedient  to  the 
word  of  glorious  command,  the  immortal  ship  goes  down.  Read  the 
story  of  the  Sarah  Sands  : — 

"'SARAH  SANDS.' 

"The  screw  steamship  Sarah  Sands,  1330  registered  tons, 
was  chartered  by  the  East  India  Company  in  the  autumn  of  1857, 
for  the  conveyance  of  troops  to  India.  She  was  comn)anded  by 
John  Squire  Castle.  She  took  out  a  part  of  the  54th  Regiment, 
upwards  of  350  persons,  besides  the  wives  and  children  of  some 
of  the  men,  and  the  families  of  some  of  the  officers.  AH  went  well 
till  the  11th  November,  when  the  ship  had  reached  lat.  14°  S., 
long.  56°  E.,  upwards  of  400  miles  from  the  Mauritius. 

"  Between  three  and  four  p.m.  on  that  day  a  very  strong  smell 
of  fire  was  perceived  arising  from  the  after-deck,  and  upon  going 
below  into  the  hold,  Captain  Castle  found  it  to  be  on  fire,  and 
immense  volumes  of  smoke  arising  from  it.  Endeavours  were  made 
to  reach  the  seat  of  the  fire,  but  in  vain  ;  the  smoke  and  heat  were 
too  much  for  the  men.  There  was,  however,  no  confusion.  Every 
order  was  obeyed  witli  the  same  coolness  and  courage  with  which 
it  was  given.  The  engine  was  immediately  stopped.  All  sail  was 
taken  in,  and  the  ship  brought  to  the  wind,  so  as  to  drive  the 
smoke  and  fire,  which  was  in  the  after-part  of  the  ship,  astern. 
Others  were,  at  the  same  time,  getting  fire-hoses  fitted  and  passed 
to  the  scene  of  the  fire.  The  fire,  however,  continued  to  increase, 
and  attention  was  directed  to  the  ammunition  contained  in  the 
powder-magazines,  which  were  situated  one  on  each  side  the  ship, 
immediately  above  the  fire.  The  starboard  magazine  was  soon 
cleared.  But  by  this  time  the  whole  of  the  after-part  of  the  ship 
was  so  much  enveloped  in  smoke  that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to 
stand,  and  great  fears  were  entertained  on  account  of  the  port 
magazine.  Volunteers  were  called  for,  and  came  immediately,  and, 
under  the  guidance  of  Lieutenant  Hughes,  attempted  to  clear  the 
port  magazine,  which  they  succeeded  in  doing,  with  the  exception, 
as  was  supposed,  of  one  or  two  barrels.  It  was  most  dangerous 
work.  The  men  became  overpowered  with  the  smoke  and  heat, 
and  fell ;  and  several,  while  thus  engaged,  were  dragged  up  by 
ropes,  senseless. 

"  The  flames  soon  burst  up  through  the  deck,  and  running 
rapidly  along  the  various  cabins,  set  the  greater  part  on  fire. 

"  In  the  meantime  Captain  Ciistlo  took  steps  for  lowering  the 
boats.    There  was  a  heavy  gale  at  tlie  time,  but  they  were  launched 


ON    RIF3B0NS  197 

without  the  least  accident.  The  soldiers  were  mustered  on  deck ; 
— there  was  no  rush  to  the  boats  ; — and  the  men  obeyed  tlie  woi'd 
of  command  as  if  on  parade.  The  men  were  informed  that  Captain 
Castle  did  not  despair  of  saving  the  ship,  but  that  they  must  be 
prepared  to  leave  her  if  necessary.  The  women  and  cliildren  were 
lowered  into  the  port  lifeboat,  under  the  charge  of  Mr.  Very,  third 
officer,  wlio  had  orders  to  keep  clear  of  the  ship  until  recalled. 

"  Captain  Castle  then  commenced  constructing  rafts  of  spare 
spars.  In  a  short  time,  three  were  put  together,  whicli  would  have 
been  capable  of  saving  a  great  number  of  those  on  board.  Two 
were  launched  overboard^  and  safely  moored  alongside,  and  then  a 
third  was  left  across  the  deck  forward,  ready  to  be  launched. 

"In  the  meantime  the  fire  had  made  great  progress.  The 
whole  of  the  cabins  were  one  body  of  fire,  and  at  about  8.30  p.m. 
flames  burst  tlirough  the  upper  deck,  and  shortly  after  the  mizzen 
rigging  caught  fire.  Fears  were  entertained  of  the  ship  paying  off, 
in  which  case  the  flames  w'ould  have  been  swept  forwards  by  the 
wind ;  but  fortunately  the  after-braces  were  burnt  thi'ough,  and 
the  main-yard  swung  round,  which  kept  the  sliip's  head  to  wind. 
About  9  P.M.  a  fearful  explosion  took  place  in  the  port  magazine, 
arising,  no  doubt,  from  tlie  one  or  two  barrels  of  powder  which  it 
had  been  impossible  to  remove.  By  this  time  the  ship  was  one 
body  of  flame,  from  the  stern  to  the  main  rigging,  and  thinking  it 
scarcely  jtossible  to  save  her.  Captain  Castle  called  Major  Brett 
(then  in  command  of  the  troops,  for  the  Colonel  was  in  one  of  the 
boats)  forward,  and,  telling  him  that  he  feared  the  ship  was  lost, 
requested  him  to  endeavour  to  keej)  order  among  the  troops  till  the 
last,  but,  at  the  same  time,  to  use  every  exertion  to  check  the  fire. 
Providentially,  the  iron  bulkhead  in  the  after-part  of  the  ship  with- 
stood the  action  of  the  flames,  and  here  all  eftbrts  were  concentrated 
to  keep  it  cool. 

"  '  No  person,*  says  the  captain,  '  can  desciibe  the  manner  in 
which  the  men  worked  to  keep  tlie  fire  back ;  one  party  Avere  below, 
keeping  the  bulkhead  cool,  and  when  several  were  dragged  up 
senseless,  fresh  volunteers  took  their  places,  who  were,  however, 
soon  in  the  same  state.  At  about  10  p.m.  the  maintopsail-yard 
took  fire.  Mr.  Welch,  one  quartermaster,  and  four  or  five  soldiers, 
went  aloft  with  wet  blankets,  and  succeeded  in  extinguishing  it, 
but  not  until  the  yard  and  mast  were  nearly  burnt  through.  The 
work  of  fighting  the  fire  below  continued  for  hours,  and  about  mid- 
night it  appeared  that  some  impression  was  made ;  and  after  that 
the  men  drove  it  back,  inch  by  iiu-h,  until  daylight,  when  they  had 
completely  got  it  under.  The  ship  was  now  in  a  frightful  plight. 
The  after-part  was  literally  burnt  out— merely  the  sliell  remaining 


198  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

— the  port  quarter  blown  out  by  the  explosion  :  fifteen  feet  of  water 
in  the  hold.' 

"  Tlie  gale  still  prevailed,  and  the  ship  was  rolling  and  pitching 
in  a  heavy  sea,  and  taking  in  large  quantities  of  water  abaft :  the 
tanks,  too,  were  rolling  from  side  to  side  in  the  hold. 

"As  soon  as  the  smoke  was  partially  cleared  away,  Captain 
Castle  got  spare  sails  and  blankets  aft  to  stop  the  leak,  passing  two 
hawsers  round  the  stern,  and  setting  them  up.  The  troops  were 
employed  baling  and  jiumping.  This  continued  during  the  whole 
morning. 

"  In  the  course  of  the  day  the  ladies  joined  the  ship.  The 
boats  were  ordered  alongside,  but  they  foiuid  the  sea  too  heavy  to 
remain  there.  The  gig  had  been  abandoned  during  the  night,  and 
the  crew,  under  Mr.  Wood,  fourth  officer,  had  got  into  another  of 
the  boats.  The  troops  were  employed  the  remainder  of  the  day 
baling  and  pumping,  and  the  crew  securing  the  stern.  All  hands 
were  employed  during  the  following  night  baling  and  pumping,  the 
boats  being  moored  alongside,  where  they  received  some  damage. 
At  daylight,  on  the  13th,  tlie  crew  were  employed  hoisting  tlie 
boats,  the  troops  were  working  manfully  baling  and  pumping. 
Latitude  at  noon,  13  deg.  12  min.  south.  At  5  p.m.  the  foresail 
and  foretopsail  were  set,  the  rafts  were  cut  away,  and  the  ship  bore 
for  the  Mauritius.  On  Thursday,  the  lOtli,  she  sighted  the  Island 
of  Rodrlgues,  and  arrived  at  Mauritius  on  Monday  the  23rd." 

The  Nile  and  Trafalgar  are  not  more  glorious  to  our  country, 
are  not  greater  victories  than  these  won  by  our  merchant-seamen. 
And  if  you  look  in  the  Captains'  reports  of  any  maritime  register, 
you  will  see  similar  acts  recorded  every  day.  I  liave  such  a  volume 
for  last  year  now  lying  before  me.  In  the  second  number,  as  I 
open  it  at  hazard,  Captain  Roberts,  master  of  the  ship  Enijnre, 
from  Shields  to  London,  reports  liow  on  the  14th  ult.  (the  14th  of 
December  1859),  he, 

"  being  off"  Whitby,  discovered  the  ship  to  be  on  fire  between  the 
main  hold  and  boilers  :  got  the  hose  from  the  engine  laid  on,  and 
succeeded  in  subduing  the  fire  ;  but  only  apparently ;  for  at  seven 
the  next  morning,  the  Dxidgeon  bearing  S.S.E.  seven  miles'  distance, 
the  fire  again  broke  out,  causing  the  ship  to  be  enveloped  in  flames 
on  both  sides  of  midships  :  got  the  hose  again  into  play,  and  all 
hands  to  work  with  buckets  to  combat  with  the  fire.  Did  not  suc- 
ceed in  stopping  it  till  four  p.m.,  to  eft'ect  which,  were  obliged  to 
cut  away  the  deck  and  top  sides,  and  throw  overboard  part  of  the 
cargo.      The  vessel  was  very  mu(!h  damaged  and  leaky :  determined 


ON    RIBBONS  199 

to  make  for  the  Hiimber.  Ship  was  run  on  sliore  on  the  mud,  near 
Grimsby  harbour,  with  five  feet  of  water  in  her  hold.  The  donkey- 
engine  broke  down.  The  water  increased  so  fast  as  to  put  out  the 
furnace  fires  and  render  the  ship  almost  unmanageable.  On  the 
tide  flowing  a  tug  towed  the  ship  off"  the  mud,  and  got  her  into 
Grimsby  to  repair." 

On  the  2nd  of  Novem.ber,  Captain  Strickland,  of  the  Purchase 
brigantine  from  Liverpool  to  Yarmouth,  U.S., 

"encountered  heavy  gales  from  W.N.W.  to  W.S.W.,  in  lat.  43°  N., 
long.  34°  W.,  in  whicli  we  lost  jib,  foretopmast,  staysail,  topsail, 
and  carried  away  the  foretopmast  stays,  bobstays  and  bowsprit, 
headsails,  cutwater  and  stern,  also  started  the  wood  ends,  which 
caused  tlie  vessel  to  leak.  Put  her  before  tlie  wind  and  sea,  and 
hove  about  twenty-five  tons  of  cargo  overboard  to  lighten  the  ship 
forward.  Slung  myself  in  a  bowline,  and  by  means  of  thrusting 
2^-inch  rope  in  the  opening,  contrived  to  stop  a  great  portion  of 
the  leak. 

'■"■December  \(Sth. — The  crew  continuing  night  and  day  at  the 
pumps,  could  not  keep  the  ship  free ;  deemed  it  prudent  for  the 
benefit  of  tliose  concerned  to  bear  up  for  tlie  nearest  port.  On 
arriving  in  lat.  48°  45'  N.,  long.  23°  W.,  observed  a  vessel  with  a 
signal  of  distress  flying.  Made  towards  her,  when  she  proved  to 
be  the  barque  Carleton,  water-logged.  The  captain  and  crew 
asked  to  be  taken  off".  Hove  to,  and  received  them  on  board,  con- 
sisting of  thirteen  men  :  and  their  shij)  was  abandoned.  We  then 
proceeded  on  our  course,  the  crew  of  the  abandoned  vessel  assisting 
all  tliey  could  to  keep  my  sliip  afloat.  We  arrived  at  Cork  harbour 
on  the  27th  ult." 

Captain  Coulson,  master  of  the  brig  OthcUo,  reports  that  his 
brig  foundered  off"  Portland,  December  27  ; — encountering  a  strong 
gale,  and  sliipping  two  heavy  seas  in  succession,  which  hove  the 
ship  on  her  beam-ends. 

"Observing  no  cliance  of  saving  the  ship,  took  to  the  long-boat, 
and  within  ten  minutes  of  leaving  lier  saw  the  brig  founder.  We 
were  picked  up  the  same  morning  by  the  French  sliip  Commerce  de 
Paris,  Captain  Tombarel." 

Here,  in  a  single  column  of  a  newsjiaper,  what  strange  touching 
pictures  do  we  find  of  seamen's  dangers,  vicissitudes,  gallantry, 
generosity !  The  ship  on  fire  —  the  captain  in  the  gale  slinging 
hiinself  in  a  bowline  to  stop  the  leak — the  Frenchman  in  t^ae  hour 


200  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

of  danger  coming  to  his  British  comrade's  rescue — the  brigantine, 
almost  a  wreck,  working  up  to  the  barque,  with  the  signal  of  distress 
flying,  and  taking  otf  her  crew  of  thirteen  men. 

"  We  then  proceeded  on  our  course,  the  crew  of  the  abandoned 
vessel  assisting  all  they  cotdd  to  keep  my  ship  afloat." 

What  noble  simple  words !  What  courage,  devotedness, 
brotherly  love  !  Do  thev  not  cause  the  heart  to  beat  and  the  eyes 
to  fill  ? 

This  is  what  seamen  do  daily,  and  for  one  another.  One  lights 
occasionally  upon  different  stories.  It  happened,  not  very  long 
since,  that  the  passengers  by  one  of  the  great  ocean  steamers  were 
wrecked,  and,  after  undergoing  the  most  severe  hardships,  were  left, 
destitute  and  helpless,  at  a  miserable  coaling  port.  Amongst  them 
were  old  men,  ladies,  and  children.  AVhen  the  next  steamer  arrived, 
the  passengers  by  tliat  steamer  took  alarm  at  the  haggard  and 
miserable  appearance  of  their  unfortunate  predecessors,  and  actually 
remonstrated  ivith  their  own  captain,  urging  him  not  to  take  the 
poor  creatures  on  board.  There  was  every  excuse  of  course.  The 
last  arrived  steamer  was  already  dangerously  full :  the  cabins  were 
crowded ;  there  were  sick  and  delicate  people  on  board — sick  and 
delicate  people  who  had  paid  a  large  price  to  the  Company  for 
room,  food,  comfort,  already  not  too  sufficient.  If  fourteen  of  us 
are  in  an  omnibus,  will  we  see  three  or  four  women  outside  and  say, 
"  Come  in,  because  this  is  the  last  'bus,  and  it  rains  "  1  Of  course 
not :  but  think  of  that  remonstrance,  and  of  that  Samaritan  master 
of  the  Purchase  brigantine  ! 

In  the  winter  of  '53,  I  went  from  Marseilles  to  Civita  Vecchia 
in  one  of  the  magnificent  P.  and  0.  ships,  the  Valetta,  the  master 
of  which  subsequently  did  distinguished  service  in  the  Crimea.  Tliis 
was  his  first  Mediterranean  voyage,  and  he  sailed  his  ship  by  the 
cliarts  alone,  going  into  each  port  as  surely  as  any  pilot.  I  re- 
member walking  the  deck  at  night  with  this  most  skilfid,  gallant, 
well-bred,  and  well-educated  gentleman,  and  the  glow  of  eager 
enthusiasm  with  which  he  assented,  when  I  asked  him  whether  he 
did  not  think  a  kibbon  or  order  would  be  welcome  or  useful  in 
his  service. 

Why  is  there  not  an  Order  of  Britannia  for  British  seamen  1 
In  the  Merchant  and  the  Royal  Navy  alike,  occur  almost  daily 
instances  and  occasions  for  the  display  of  science,  skill,  bravery, 
fortitude  in  trying  circumstances,  resource  in  danger.  In  the  first 
number  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  a  friend  contributed  a  most 
touching  story  of  the  M'Clintock  expedition,  in  the  dangers  and 


ON    RIBBONS  201 

dreadful  glories  of  which  he  shared  ;  nnd  tlie  writer  was  a  merchant 
captain.  How  many  more  are  there  (and,  for  the  honour  of 
England,  may  there  he  many  like  him  !) — gallant,  accomplished, 
high-spirite<l,  enterprising  masters  of  their  noble  profession  !  Can 
our  fountain  of  Honour  not  be  brought  to  such  men"?  It  plays 
upon  caj)tains  and  colonels  in  seemly  profusion.  It  pours  forth  not 
illiberal  rewards  upon  doctors  and  judges.  It  sprinkles  mayors  and 
aldermen.  It  bedews  a  painter  now  and  again.  It  has  spirted  a 
baronetcy  upon  two,  and  bestowed  a  coronet  upon  one  noble  man 
of  letters.  Diplomatists  take  their  Bath  in  it  as  of  right ;  and  it 
flings  out  a  profusion  of  glittering  stars  upon  the  nobility  of  the 
three  kingdoms.  Cannot  Britannia  find  a  ribbon  for  her  sailors'? 
The  Navy,  Royal  or  mercantile,  is  a  Service.  The  command  of  a 
ship,  or  the  conduct  of  her,  implies  danger,  honour,  science,  skill, 
subordination,  good  faith.  It  may  be  a  victory,  such  as  that  of 
the  Sarah  Sands  ;  it  may  be  discovery,  such  as  that  of  the  Fox  ; 
it  may  be  heroic  disaster,  such  as  that  of  the  BirJcenhead ;  and  in 
such  events  merchant  seamen,  as  well  as  Royal  seamen,  take  their 
share. 

Why  is  there  not,  then,  an  Order  of  Britannia  1  One  day  a 
young  officer  of  the  Enryalus*  may  win  it ;  and,  having  just  I'cad 
the  memoirs  of  Lord  Dundonald,  I  know  who  ought  to  have  the 
first  Grand  Cross. 

*  Prince  Alfred  was  serving  on  board  the  fripite  Euryalus  -when  this  was 
written. 


ON  SOME  LATE  GREAT  VICTORIES 


ON  the  18th  day  of  April  last  I  went  to  see  a  friend  in  a 
neighbouring  Crescent,  and  on  the  steps  of  the  next  house 
beheld  a  group  something  like  that  depicted  on  the  next 
page.  A  newsboy  had  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  was  reading  aloud 
the  journal  which  it  was  his  duty  to  deliver ;  a  pretty  orange-girl, 
with  a  lieap  of  blazing  fruit,  rendered  more  brilliant  by  one  of  those 
great  blue  papers  in  which  oranges  are  now  artfully  wrapped,  leant 
over  the  railing  and  listened ;  and  opposite  the  nympham  discentem 
there  was  a  capering  and  acute-eared  young  satirist  of  a  crossing- 
sweeper,  who  had  left  his  neighbouring  professional  avocation  and 
chance  of  profit,  in  order  to  listen  to  the  tale  of  the  little  newsboy. 

That  intelligent  reader,  with  his  hand  following  the  line  as  he 
read  it  out  to  his  audience,  w;is  saying  : — "  And — now — Tom — 
coming  up  smiling — after  his  fall — dee — delivered  a  rattling  clinker 
upon  the  Benicia  Boy's — potato-trap — but  was  met  by  a — punisher 
on  the  nose — which,"  &c.  &c.  ;  or  words  to  that  effect.  Betty  at 
52  let  me  in,  while  the  boy  was  reading  his  lecture ;  and,  iiaving 
been  some  twenty  minutes  or  so  in  the  house,  and  paid  my  visit, 
I  took  leave. 

The  little  lecturer  was  still  at  work  on  the  51  doorstep,  and  his 
audience  had  scarcely  changed  their  position.  Having  read  every, 
word  of  the  battle  myself  in  the  morning,  1  did  not  stay  to  listen 
further  ;  but  if  the  gentleman  who  expected  his  paper  at  the  usual 
iiour  that  day  experienced  delay  and  a  little  disappointment,  I  shall 
not  be  surprised. 

I  am  not  going  to  expatiate  on  the  battle.  I  have  read  in  the 
correspondent's  letter  of  a  Northern  newspaper,  that  in  the  midst 
of  the  company  assembled  the  reader's  humble  servant  was  pre- 
sent, and  in  a  very  polite  society,  too,  of  "  poets,  clergymen,  men  of 
letters,  and  members  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament."  If  so,  I  must 
have  walked  to  the  station  in  my  sleep,  paid  three  guineas  in  a 
profound  fit  of  mental  abstraction,  and  returned  to  bed  unconscious, 
for  I  certainly  woke  there  about  the  time  when  history  relates  that 
the  fight  was  over.  I  do  not  know  whose  colours  I  wore — the 
Benician's,  or  those  of  the  English  champion ;  nor  remember  where 


ON    SOME    LATE    GREAT    VICTORIES 


203 


the  fight  took  place,  Avhich,  indeed,  no  somnambulist  is  bound  to 
recollect.  Ought  Mr.  Sayers  to  be  honoured  for  being  brave,  or 
punished  for  being  naughty  1  By  the  shade  of  Brutus  the  elder,  I 
don't  knoM\ 

In  George  II.'s  time,  there  was  a  turbulent  navy  lieutenant 
(Handsome  Smith  lie  was  called — his  picture  is  at  Greenwich  now, 
in  brown  velvet,  and  gold  and  scarlet ;  his  coat  handsome,  his 
waistcoat  exceedingly  handsome ;  but   liis   face   by   no   means   tlie 


iiiii'|i"i'i"l|M      ''''''''''"' tl|l|i|illiiliiB 


beauty) — there  was,  I  say,  a  turbulent  young  lieutenant  who  was 
broke  on  a  complaint  of  the  French  ambassador,  for  obliging  a 
Frencli  ship  of  war  to  lower  her  topsails  to  his  shij)  at  Spitliead. 
But,  by  the  King's  orders,  Tom  was  next  day  made  Captain  Smith. 
Well,  if  I  Avere  absolute  king,  I  would  send  Tom  Sayers  to  the  mill 
for  a  month,  and  make  him  Sir  Thomas  on  coming  out  of  Clerken- 
well.  You  arc  a  naughty  boy,  Tom  !  but  then,  you  know,  we  ought 
to  love  our  brethren,  though  ever  so  nauglity.     We  are  moralists, 


204  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

and  reprimand  you ;  and  you  are  hereby  reprimanded  accordingly. 
But  in  case  England  should  ever  have  need  of  a  few  score  thousand 
champions,  who  laugh  at  danger ;  who  cope  with  giants ;  who, 
stricken  to  the  ground,  jump  up  and  gaily  rally,  and  fall,  and  rise 
again,  and  strike,  and  die  rather  than  yield — in  case  the  country 
should  need  such  men,  and  you  should  know  them,  be  i)leased  to 
send  lists  of  the  misguided  persons  to  the  principal  police  stations, 
where  means  may  some  day  be  found  to  utilise  their  wretched 
powers,  and  give  their  deplorable  energies  a  right  direction.  Suppose, 
Tom,  that  you  and  your  friends  are  pitted  against  an  immense 
invader — suppose  you  are  bent  on  holding  the  ground,  and  dying 
there,  if  need  be — suppose  it  is  life,  freedom,  honour,  home,  you  are 
fighting  for,  and  there  is  a  death-dealing  sword  or  I'ifle  in  your  hand, 
with  which  you  are  going  to  resist  some  tremendous  enemy  who 
challenges  your  championship  on  your  native  shore?  Then,  Sir 
Thomas,  resist  him  to  the  death,  and  it  is  all  right :  kill  him,  and 
Heaven  bless  you.  Drive  him  into  the  sea,  and  there  destroy, 
smash,  and  drown  him ;  and  let  us  sing  Laiidamus.  In  these 
national  cases,  you  see,  we  override  the  indisputable  first  laws  of 
morals.  Loving  your  neighbour  is  very  well  ;  but  suppose  your 
neighbour  comes  over  from  Calais  and  Boulogne  to  rob  you  of  your 
laws,  your  liberties,  your  newspapers,  your  parliament  (all  of  which 
some  dear  neighbours  of  ours  Iiave  given  up  in  the  most  self-denying 
manner) :  suppose  any  neigldjour  were  to  cross  the  water  and  proi)ose 
this  kind  of  thing  to  us?  Should  we  not  be  justified  in  humbly 
trying  to  pitch  him  into  the  water  1  If  it  were  the  King  of  Belgium 
himself,  we  must  do  so.  I  mean  that  fighting,  of  course,  is  wrong ; 
but  that  there  are  occasions  when,  &c. — I  suppose  I  mean  that  that 
one-handed  fight  of  Sayers  is  one  of  the  most  spirit-stirring  little 
stories  ever  told :  and  with  every  love  and  respect  for  Morality — • 
my  spirit  says  to  her,  "Do,  for  goodness'  sake,  my  dear  madam, 
keep  your  true,  and  pure,  and  womanly,  and  gentle  remarks  for 
another  day.  Have  the  great  kindness  to  stand  a  leetle  aside,  and 
just  let  us  see  one  or  two  more  rounds  between  the  men.  That 
little  man  with  the  one  hand  powerless  on  his  breast  facing  yonder 
giant  for  hours,  and  felling  him,  too,  every  now  and  then  !  It  is 
the  little  'Java'  and  the  'Constitution'  over  again." 

I  think  it  is  a  most  fortunate  event  for  the  brave  Heenan,  who 
has  acted  and  written  since  the  battle  with  a  true  warrior's  courtesy 
and  with  a  great  deal  of  good  logic  too,  that  the  battle  was  a  drawn 
one.  The  advantage  was  all  on  Mr,  Sayers's  side.  Say  a  young 
lad  of  sixteen  insults  me  in  the  street,  and  I  try  and  thrash  him, 
and  do  it.  Well,  I  have  thrashed  a  young  lad.  You  great  big 
tyrant,  couldn't  you  hit  one  of  your  own  size  ?     But  say  the  lad 


A    GREAT    BATTLE. 


ON    SOME    LATE    GREAT    VICTORIES        205 

tlirashes  me  1  In  either  case  I  walk  away  discomfited  :  but  in  the 
latter,  I  am  positively  put  to  sliame.  Xow,  when  the  ropes  were 
cut  from  that  death-grip,  and  Sir  Thomas  released,  the  gentleman 
of  Benicia  was  confessedly  blind  of  one  eye,  and  speedily  afterwards 
was  blind  of  both.  Could  Mr.  Sayers  have  held  out  for  three 
minutes,  for  five  minutes,  for  ten  minutes  more  1  He  says  he  could. 
So  we  say  we  could  have  held  out,  and  did,  and  had  beaten  oft'  the 
enemy  at  Waterloo,  even  if  the  Prussians  hadn't  come  up.  The 
opinions  differ  pretty  much  according  to  the  nature  of  the  opinants. 
I  say  the  Duke  and  Tom  could  have  held  out,  that  they  meant  to 
hold  out,  that  they  did  hold  out,  and  that  there  has  been  fistifying 
enough.  That  crowd  which  came  in  and  stopjied  the  fight  ought 
to  be  considered  like  one  of  those  divine  clouds  which  the  gods  send 
in  Homer  : — 

"Apollo  shrouds 
The  godlike  Trojan  in  a  veil  of  clouds." 

It  is  the  best  way  of  getting  the  god-like  Trojan  out  of  the  scrape, 
don't  you  seel  The  nodus  is  cut;  Tom  is  out  of  chancery;  the 
Benicia  Boy  not  a  bit  the  worse,  nay,  better  than  if  he  had  beaten 
the  little  man.  He  has  not  the  humiliation  of  conquest.  He  is 
greater,  and  will  be  loved  more  hereafter  by  the  gentle  sex. 
Suppose  he  had  overcome  the  god-like  Trojan  1  Suppose  he  had 
tied  Tom's  corpse  to  his  cab-wheels,  and  driven  to  Farnham, 
smoking  the  pipe  of  triumph  1  Faugh  !  the  great  hulking  conqueror  ! 
Why  did  you  not  hold  your  hand  from  yonder  hero  1  Everybody, 
I  say,  was  relieved  by  that  opportune  appearance  of  the  British 
gods,  protectors  of  native  valour,  who  interfered,  and  "  withdrew  " 
their  champion. 

Now,  suppose  six-feet-two  conqueror,  and  five-feet-eight  beaten  ; 
would  Sayers  have  been  a  whit  the  less  gallant  and  meritorious'? 
If  Sancho  had  been  allowed  really  to  reign  in  Barataria,  I  make  no 
doubt  that,  with  his  good  sense  and  kindness  of  heart,  he  would 
have  devised  some  means  of  rewarding  the  brave  vanquished,  as 
well  as  the  brave  victors  in  the  Baratarian  army,  and  that  a 
champion  who  had  fought  a  good  fight  would  have  been  a  knight 
of  King  Don  Sancho's  orders,  whatever  the  upshot  of  the  combat 
had  been.  Suppose  Wellington  overwhelmed  on  the  i)lateau  of 
Mont  Saint  Jean ;  suppose  Washington  attacked  and  beaten  at 
Valley  Forge — and  either  supposition  is  quite  easy — and  Avhat 
becomes  of  the  heroes'?  They  would  have  been  as  brave,  honest, 
heroic,  wise ;  but  their  glory,  where  would  it  have  been '?  Should 
we  have  had  their  portraits  hanging  in  our  chambers '?  have  been 
familiar  with  their  histories  1   have   pondered   over   their   letters. 


206  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

common  lives,  and  daily  sayings'?  There  is  not  only  merit,  but 
luck,  wliich  goes  to  making  a  hero  out  of  a  gentleman.  Mind, 
please  you,  I  am  not  saying  that  the  hero  is  after  all  not  so  very 
heroic ;  and  have  not  the  least  desire  to  grudge  him  his  merit 
because  of  his  good  fortune. 

Have  you  any  idea  wliither  this  Roundabout  Essay  on  some 
late  great  victories  is  tending]  Do  you  suppose  that  by  those 
words  I  mean  Trenton,  Brandywine,  Salamanca,  Vittoria,  and  so 
forth  1  By  a  great  victory  I  can't  mean  that  affair  at  Farnham, 
for  it  was  a  drawn  fight.  Where,  then,  are  the  victories,  pray,  and 
when  are  we  coming  to  them  ? 

My  good  sir,  you  will  perceive  that  in  this  Nica^an  discourse  I 
have  only  as  yet  advanced  as  far  as  this — that  a  hero,  whether  he 
wins  or  loses,  is  a  hero  ;  and  that  if  a  fellow  will  but  be  honest  and 
courageous,  and  do  his  best,  we  are  for  paying  all  honour  to  him. 
Furthermore,  it  has  been  asserted  that  Fortune  has  a  good  deal  to 
do  with  tlie  making  of  heroes  ;  and  thus  hinted  for  the  consolation 
of  those  who  don't  happen  to  be  engaged  in  any  stupendous  victories, 
that,  had  opportunity  so  served,  they  miglit  have  been  heroes  too. 
If  you  are  not,  friend,  it  is  not  your  fault,  whilst  I  don't  wish  to 
detract  from  any  gentleman's  reputation  who  is.  There !  My 
worst  enemy  can't  take  objection  to  that.  The  point  might  have 
been  put  more  briefly  perhaps ;  but,  if  you  please,  we  will  not  argue 
that  question. 

Well,  then.  The  victories  which  I  wish  especially  to  com- 
memorate in  this  paper,  are  the  six  great,  complete,  prodigious,  and 
undeniable  victories,  achieved  by  the  corps  which  the  editor  of  the 
Gornhill  Magazine  has  the  honour  to  command.  When  I  seemed 
to  speak  disparagingly  but  now  of  generals,  it  was  that  chief  I  had 
in  my  I  (if  you  will  permit  me  the  expression).  I  wished  him  not 
to  be  elated  by  too  much  prosperity  ;  I  warned  him  against  assum- 
ing lieroic  imperatorial  airs,  and  cocking  his  laurels  too  jauntily 
over  his  ear.  I  was  his  conscience,  and  stood  on  the  splash-board 
of  his  triumph-car,  whispering,  "  Hominem  memento  te."  As  we 
rolled  along  the  way,  and  passed  the  weathercocks  on  the  temples, 
I  saluted  the  symbol  of  the  goddess  Fortune  with  a  reverent  awe. 
"  We  have  done  our  little  endeavour,"  I  said,  bowing  my  head, 
"  and  mortals  can  do  no  more.  But  we  might  have  fought  bravely, 
and  not  won.  We  might  have  cast  the  coin,  calling  '  Head,'  and 
lo  !  Tail  might  have  come  uppermost."  0  thou  Ruler  of  Victories  ! 
— thou  Awarder  of  Fame  ! — tliou  Giver  of  Crowns  (and  shillings) — 
if  thou  hast  smiled  upon  us,  sliall  we  not  be  thankful  ?  There  is  a 
Saturnine  piiilosopher,  standing  at  the  door  of  his  book-shop,  who, 
I  fancy,   has  a  pooh-pooh  expression  as  the  triumph  passes.     (I 


ON    SOME    LATE    GREAT    VICTORIES        207 

can't  see  quite  clearly  for  the  laurels,  -wliicli  have  fallen  down  over 
my  nose.)  One  hand  is  reining  in  the  two  white  elephants  that 
draw  the  car  ;  I  raise  the  other  hand  up  to — to  tlie  laurels,  and  pass 
on,  waving  him  a  graceful  recognition.  Up  the  Hill  of  Ludgate — 
around  the  Pauline  Sijuare — by  the  side  of  Chepe — until  it  reaches 
our  own  Hill  of  Corn — the  procession  passes.  The  Iniperator  is 
bowing  to  the  people ;  the  captains  of  the  legions  are  riding  round 
the  car,  their  gallant  minds  struck  by  the  tiiought,  "  Have  we  not 
fought  as  well  as  yonder  fellow,  swaggering  in  the  chariot,  and  are 
we  not  as  good  as  he  1 "  Granted,  with  all  my  heart,  my  dear  lads. 
When  your  consulship  arrives,  may  you  be  as  fortunate.  When 
these  hands,  now  growing  old,  shall  lay  down  sword  and  truncheon, 
may  you  mount  the  car,  and  ride  to  the  temple  of  Jupiter.  Be 
yours  the  laurel  then.  Keqne  me  myrtns  dedecet,  looking  cosily 
down  from  the  arbour  where  I  sit  under  the  arched  vine. 

I  fancy  the  Imperator  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  temple 
(erected  by  Titus)  on  the  Mons  Frumentarius,  and  addressing  the 
citizens  :  "  Quirites  !  "  he  says,  "  in  our  campaign  of  six  months, 
we  have  been  engaged  six  times,  and  in  each  action  have  taken  near 
upon  a  hundred  thousand  2»"i^oners.  Go  to  !  AVhat  are  other 
magazines  compared  to  our  magazine  ?  (Sound,  trumpeter  !)  What 
banner  is  there  like  that  of  Cornhill  1  You,  philosopher  yonder  !  " 
(he  shirks  under  his  mantle).  "  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  have 
a  hundred  and  ten  thousand  readers  1  A  hundred  thousand  readers  1 
a  hundred  thousand  bvi/ers  !  "  (Cries  of  "  No  !  "  "  Pooh  !  "  "  Yes, 
upon  my  honour!"  "Oh,  come!"  and  murmurs  of  applause  and 
derision) — "  I  say  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  purchasers — and 
I  believe  as  much  as  a  million  readers!"  (Immense  sensation.) 
"  To  these  have  we  said  an  unkind  word  1  We  have  enemies  ;  have 
we  hit  them  an  unkind  blow  1  Have  we  sought  to  pursue  party 
aims,  to  forward  private  jobs,  to  advance  selfish  schemes  ?  The 
only  persons  to  whom  wittingly  w^e  have  given  pain  are  some  who 
have  volunteered  for  our  corps — and  of  these  volunteers  we  have 
had  thousands."  (Murmurs  and  grumbles.)  "What  comn)ander, 
citizens,  could  place  all  these  men — could  make  officers  of  all  these 
men  ? "  (cries  of  "  No— no  !  "  and  laughter) — "  could  say,  '  I  accept 
this  recruit,  though  he  is  too  short  for  our  standard,  because  he  is 
poor,  and  lias  a  mother  at  home  who  wants  bread  V  could  enrol 
this  other,  who  is  too  weak  to  bear  arms,  because  he  says,  '  Look, 
sir,  I  shall  be  stronger  anon.'  The  leader  of  such  an  army  as  ours 
must  select  his  men,  not  because  they  are  good  and  virtuous,  but 
because  they  are  strong  and  capable.  To  these  oui-  ranks  are  ever 
open,  and  in  addition  to  the  warriors  who  surround  me " — (the 
generals  look  proudly  conscious) — "  I  tell  you^  citizens,  that  I  aw 


208  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

in  treaty  with  other  and  most  tremendous  champions,  who  will 
marcli  by  the  side  of  our  veterans  to  the  achievement  of  fresh 
victories.  Now,  blow  trumpets  !  Bang,  ye  gongs  !  and  drummers, 
drub  the  thundering  skins  !  Generals  and  chiefs,  we  go  to  sacrifice 
to  the  gods." 

Crowned  with  flowers,  the  captains  enter  the  temple,  the  other 
Magazines  walking  modestly  behind  them.  The  people  huzza  ;  and, 
in  some  instances,  kneel  and  kiss  the  fringes  of  the  robes  of  the 
warriors.  The  Philosopher  puts  up  his  shutters,  and  retires  into 
his  shop,  deeply  moved.  In  ancient  times  Pliny  {aprid  Smith) 
relates  it  was  the  custom  of  the  Imperator  "  to  paint  his  whole 
body  a  bright  red  ; "  and,  also,  on  ascending  the  Hill,  to  have  some 
of  the  hostile  chiefs  led  aside  "  to  the  adjoining  prison,  and  put  to 
death."     We  propose  to  dispense  with  both  these  ceremonies. 


TEORFS  IN  THE  CUSHION 


IN  the  first  of  these  Essays,  the  Cornhill  Magazine  was  likened 
to  a  ship  sailing  fortli  on  her  voyage,  and  the  captain  uttered 
a  very  sincere  prayer  for  her  prosperity.  The  dangers  of 
storm  and  rock,  tlie  vast  outlay  upon  ship  and  cargo,  and  the 
certain  risk  of  the  venture,  gave  the  chief  oflicer  a  feeling  of 
no  small  anxiety ;  for  who  could  say  from  what  quarter  dangf  r 
might  arise,  and  how  his  owner's  property  might  be  imperilled  '\ 
After  a  six  months'  voyage,  we  with  very  thankful  hearts  could 
acknowledge  our  good  fortune  :  and,  taking  up  the  apologue  in 
the  Roundabout  manner,  we  composed  a  triumphal  procession  in 
honour  of  the  Magazine,  and  imagined  the  Imperator  thereof  riding 
in  a  sublime  car  to  return  thanks  in  the  Temple  of  Victory.  Corn- 
hill  is  accustomed  to  grandeur  and  greatness,  and  has  witnessed, 
every  ninth  of  November,  for  I  don't  know  how  many  centuries,  a 
prodigious  annual  pageant,  chariot,  pi'ogress,  and  flourish  of  trum- 
petry ;  and  being  so  very  near  the  Mansion  House,  I  am  sure  the 
reader  will  understand  how  the  idea  of  pageant  and  procession 
came  naturally  to  my  mind.  The  imagination  easily  supplied  a 
gold  coach,  eight  cream-coloured  horses  of  your  true  Pegasus  breed, 
huzzaying  multitudes,  running  footmen,  and  clanking  knights  in 
armour,  a  chaplain  and  a  sword-bearer  with  a  muft'  on  his  head, 
scowling  out  of  the  coach  window,  and  a  Lord  Mayor  all  crimson, 
fur,  gold-chain,  and  white  ribbons,  solemnly  occupying  the  place  of 
state.  A  playful  fancy  could  have  carried  the  matter  farther,  could 
have  depicted  the  feast  in  the  Egyptian  Hall,  the  Ministers,  Chief 
Justices,  and  right  reverend  prelates  taking  their  seats  round  about 
his  Lordship,  the  turtle  and  other  delicious  viands,  and  Mr.  Toole 
behind  the  central  throne,  bawling  out  to  the  assend)led  guests  and 
dignitaries  :  "  My  Lord  So-and-so,  My  Lord  What-d'ye-call-'im,  my 
Lord  Etcsetera,  the  Lord  Mayor  jiledges  you  all  in  a  loving  cup." 
Then  the  noble  proceedings  come  to  an  end  ;  Lord  Simper  proposes 
the  ladies ;  the  company  rises  from  table,  and  adjourns  to  coffee 
and  muffins.  The  carriages  of  the  nobility  and  guests  roll  back  to 
the  West.  The  Egyptian  Hall,  so  bright  just  now,  appears  in  a 
U 


210  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

twilight  gliinmer,  iu  Avhich  waiters  are  seen  ransacking  tlie  dessert, 
and  rescuing  the  spoons.  His  Lordsliip  and  the  Lady  Mayoress  go 
into  their  private  apartments.  The  robes  are  doffed,  tlie  collar  and 
white  ribbons  are  removed.  The  Mayor  becomes  a  man,  and  is 
pretty  surely  in  a  iluster  about  the  speeches  which  he  has  just 
uttered ;  remembering  too  well  now,  wretched  creature,  the  prin- 
cipal points  which  he  didvbt  make  when  he  rose  to  si)eak.  He  goes 
to  bed  to  headache,  to  care,  to  repentance,  and,  I  daresay,  to  a 
dose  of  something  which  hie  body  physician  has  prescribed  for  him. 
And  there  are  ever  so  many  men  in  the  City  who  fancy  that  man 
happy  ! 

Now,  suppose  that  all  through  that  9th  of  November  his  Lord- 
ship has  had  a  racking  rheumatism,  or  a  toothache,  let  us  say, 
during  all  dinner-time — through  which  he  has  been  obliged  to  grin 
and  mumble  his  poor  old  speeches.  Is  he  enviable  %  Would  you 
like  to  change  with  his  Lordship  %  Suppose  that  bumper  which  his 
golden  footman  brings  him,  instead  i'fackins  of  ypocras  or  canary, 
containss  ome  abomination  of  senna  %  Away  !  Remove  the  golden 
goblet,  insidious  cup-bearer  !  You  now  begin  to  perceive  the  gloomy 
moral  which  I  am  about  to  draw. 

Last  month  we  sang  the  song  of  glorification,  and  rode  in  the 
chariot  of  triumph.  It  was  all  very  well.  It  was  light  to  huzza, 
and  be  thankful,  and  cry.  Bravo,  our  side  !  and  besides,  you  know, 
there  was  the  enjoyment  of  thinking  how  pleased  Brown,  and 
Jones,  and  Robinson  (our  dear  friends)  would  be  at  this  announce- 
ment of  success.  But  now  that  the  performance  is  over,  my  good 
sir,  just  step  into  my  private  room,  and  see  that  it  is  not  all 
pleasure — this  winning  of  successes.  Cast  your  eye  over  those 
newspapers,  over  those  letters.  See  what  the  critics  say  of  your 
harmless  jokes,  neat  little  trim  sentences,  and  pet  waggeries  !  Why, 
you  are  no  better  than  an  idiot ;  you  are  drivelling ;  your  powers 
have  left  you ;  this  always  overrated  writer  is  rapidly  sinking 
to ,  &c. 

This  is  not  pleasant ;  but  neither  is  this  the  point.  It  may  be 
the  critic  is  right,  and  the  author  wrong.  It  may  be  that  the  arch- 
bishop's sermon  is  not  so  fine  as  some  of  those  discourses  twenty 
years  ago  which  used  to  delight  the  faithful  in  Granatla.  Or  it 
may  be  (pleasing  thought  !)  that  the  critic  is  a  dullard,  and  does 
not  understand  what  he  is  writing  about.  Everybody  who  has 
been  to  an  exhibition  has  heard  visitors  discoursing  about  the 
pictures  before  their  faces.  One  says,  "  This  is  very  well ;  "  another 
says,  "  This  is  stuff  and  rubbish  ; "  another  cries,  "  Bravo  !  this  is  a 
masterpiece  :  "  and  each  has  a  right  to  his  opinion.  For  example, 
one  of  the  pictures  I  admired  most  at  the  Royal  Academy  is  by  a 


THORNS    IN    THE    CUSHION  211 

gentleman  on  whom  I  never,  to  my  knowledge,  set  eyes.  This 
picture  is  No.  346,  "  Moses,"  by  Mr.  S.  Solomon.  I  thought  it 
had  a  great  intention,  I  thought  it  finely  drawn  and  composed.  It 
nobly  represented,  to  my  mind,  the  dark  children  of  the  Egyptian 
bondage,  and  suggested  the  touching  story.  My  newspaper  says  : 
"  Two  ludicrously  ugly  women,  looking  at  a  dingy  baby,  do  not 
form  a  pleasing  object ; "  and  so  good-bye,  Mr.  Solomon.  Are  not 
most  of  our  babies  served  so  in  life?  and  doesn't  Mr.  Robinson 
consider  Mr.  Brown's  cherub  an  ugly  squalling  little  brat  1  So 
cheer  up,  Mr.  S.  S.  It  may  be  the  critic  who  discoursed  on  your 
baby  is  a  bad  judge  of  babies.  When  Pharaoh's  kind  daughter 
found  the  child,  and  cherished  and  loved  it,  and  took  it  home,  and 
found  a  nurse  for  it,  too,  I  daresay  there  were  grim,  brickdust- 
coloured  chamberlains,  or  some  of  the  tough,  old,  meagre,  yellow 
princesses  at  Court,  who  never  had  children  themselves,  who  cried 
out,  "  Faugh  !  the  horrid  little  squalling  wretch  ! "  and  knew  he 
would  never  come  to  good;  and  said,  "Didn't  I  tell  you  sol" 
when  he  assaulted  the  Egyptian. 

Never  mind  then,  Mr.  S.  Solomon,  I  say,  because  a  critic  pooh- 
poohs  your  work  of  art — your  Moses — your  child — your  foundling. 
Why,  did  not  a  wiseacre  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  lately  fall  foul 
of  "  Tom  Jones  "  1  0  hyi)ercritic  !  So,  to  be  sure,  did  good  old 
Mr.  Richardson,  who  could  write  novels  himself;  but  you,  and  I, 
and  Mr.  Gibbon,  my  dear  sir,  agree  in  giving  our  respect,  and 
wonder,  and  ailmiration,  to  the  brave  old  master. 

In  these  last  words  I  am  supposing  the  respected  reader  to  be 
endowed  with  a  sense  of  humour,  which  he  may  or  may  not  possess ; 
indeed,  don't  we  know  many  an  honest  man  who  can  no  more 
comprehend  a  joke  than  he  can  turn  a  tune'?  But  I  take  for 
granted,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  are  brimming  over  with  fun— you 
mayn't  make  jokes,  but  you  could  if  you  would — you  know  you 
could  :  and  in  your  quiet  way  you  enjoy  them  extremely.  Now 
many  people  neitlier  make  them,  nor  understand  them  when  made, 
nor  like  them  when  understood,  and  are  suspicious,  testy,  and 
angry  with  jokers.  Have  you  ever  Avatched  an  elderly  male  or 
female — an  elderly  "  party,"  so  to  speak,  who  begins  to  find  out 
that  some  young  wag  of  the  company  is  "  chaffing  "  him  1  Have 
you  ever  tried  the  sarcastic  or  Socratic  method  with  a  cliild  1  Little 
simple  he  or  she,  in  the  innocence  of  the  simple  heart,  plays  some 
silly  freak,  or  makes  some  absurd  remark,  which  you  turn  to  I'idieule. 
The  little  creature  dimly  perceives  that  you  are  making  fun  of  him, 
writhes,  blushes,  grows  uneasy,  bursts  into  tears, — upon  my  wor(l 
it  is  not  fair  to  try  the  weapon  of  ridicule  upon  that  innocent 
young  victim.     The  awful  objurgatory  i)ractice  he  is  accustomed  to. 


212  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Point  out  his  fault,  and  lay  bare  the  dire  consequences  thereof: 
expose  it  roundly,  and  give  him  a  proper,  solemn,  moral  wliii)ping— 
but  do  not  attempt  to  castigare  ridendo.  Do  not  laugh  at  him  writh- 
ing, and  cause  all  the  other  boys  in  the  school  to  laugh.  Remember 
your  own  young  days  at  school,  my  friend^the  tingling  cheeks, 
burning  e;irs,  bursting  heart,  and  passion  of  desperate  tears,  with 
which  you  looked  up,  after  having  performed  some  blunder,  whilst 
the  Doctor  held  you  to  public  scorn  before  the  class,  and  cracked 
his  great  clumsy  jokes  upon  you — helpless,  and  a  prisoner !  Better 
the  block  itself,  and  the  lictors,  Avith  their  fasces  of  birch-twigs,  than 
the  maddening  torture  of  those  jokes  ! 

Now,  with  respect  to  jokes — and  the  present  company  of  course 
excepted  —  many  people,  perhaps  most  people,  are  as  infants.  They 
have  little  sense  of  humour.  Tliey  don't  like  jokes.  Raillery  in 
writing  annoys  and  offends  them.  The  coarseness  apart,  I  think  I 
liave  met  very  very  few  women  who  liked  the  banter  of  Swift  ami 
Fielding.  Their  simple  tender  natures  revolt  at  laughter.  Is  the 
satyr  always  a  wicked  brute  at  heart,  and  are  they  rightly  shocked 
at  his  grin,  his  leer,  his  horns,  hoofs,  and  ears  ?  Fi  done,  Ic  vilain 
vLonstre,  with  his  shrieks,  and  his  capering  crooked  legs  !  Let  him 
go  and  get  a  pair  of  "well-wadded  black  silk  stockings,  and  pull  them 
over  those  horrid  shanks ;  put  a  large  gown  and  bands  over  beard 
and  hide  ;  and  pour  a  dozen  of  lavender-water  into  his  lawn  hand- 
kerchief, and  cry,  and  never  make  a  joke  again.  It  shall  all  be 
highly-distilled  poesy,  and  perfumed  sentiment,  and  gushing  elo- 
quence ;  and  the  foot  skati't  peep  out,  and  a  jjlague  take  it.  Cover 
it  up  with  the  surplice.  Out  With  your  cambric,  dear  ladies,  and 
let  us  all  whimper  together. 

Now,  then,  hand  on  heart,  we  declare  that  it  is  not  the  fire  of 
adverse  critics  which  afflicts  or  frightens  the  editorial  bosom.  They 
may  be  right ;  they  may  he  rogues  who  have  a  i)ersonal  sjiite  ;  they 
may  be  dullards  who  kick  and  bray  as  their  nature  is  to  do,  and 
prefer  thistles  to  jjineapples ;  tliey  may  be  conscientious,  acute, 
deeply  learned,  delightful  judges,  who  see  your  joke  in  a  moment, 
and  the  profound  wisdom  lying  underneath.  Wise  or  dull,  lauda- 
tory or  otherwise,  we  put  their  opinions  aside.  If  they  applaud, 
we  are  pleased :  if  they  shake  their  quick  pens,  and  fly  off  with  a 
hiss,  we  resign  their  favours  and  put  on  all  the  fortitude  we  can 
muster.  I  would  rather  have  the  lowest  man's  good  word  than 
his  bad  one,  to  be  sure ;  but  as  for  coaxing  a  compliment,  or  wheed- 
ling him  into  good-humour,  or  stopping  his  angry  mouth  with  a 
good  dinner,  or  accepting  his  contributions  for  a  certain  Magazine, 
for  fear  of  his  barking  or  snapping  elsewhere — allons  done  I  These 
shall  not  be  our  acts.     Bow-wow,  Cerberus  !     Here  shall  be  no  sop 


THORNS    IN    THE    CUSHION  213 

for  thee,  unless — unless  Cerberus  is  an  uncommonly  good  dog,  when 
we  shall  bear  no  malice  because  he  flew  at  us  from  our  neighbour's 
gate. 

What,  then,  is  the  main  grief  you  spoke  of  as  annoying  you— 
the  toothache  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  jaw,  the  thorn  in  the  cushion  of 
the  editorial  chair?  It  is  there.  Ah  !  it  stings  me  now  as  I  write. 
It  comes  with  almost  every  morning's  post.  At  night  I  come  iionie, 
and  take  my  letters  up  to  bed  (not  daring  to  open  tlieni),  and  in  the 
morning  I  find  one,  two,  three  thorns  on  my  jnllow.  Three  I  ex- 
tracted yesterday ;  two  I  found  this  morning.  They  don't  sting 
quite  so  sharply  as  they  did  ;  but  a  skin  is  a  skin,  and  they  bite, 
after  all,  most  wickedly.  It  is  all  very  fine  to  advertise  on  the 
Magazine,  "  Contributions  are  only  to  be  sent  to  Messrs.  Smith, 
Elder,  &  Co.,  and  not  to  the  Editor's  private  residence."  My  dear 
sir,  how  little  you  know  man-  or  woman-kind,  if  you  fancy  they 
will  take  that  sort  of  warning  !  How  am  I  to  know  (thougii,  to  be 
sure,  I  begin  to  know  now),  as  I  take  the  letters  off"  the  tray,  which 
of  those  envelopes  contains  a  real  bond  fide  letter,  and  which  a 
thorn  %  One  of  the  best  invitations  this  year  I  mistook  for  a  thorn- 
letter,  and  kei»t  it  without  opening.  This  is  what  I  call  a  thorn- 
letter  : — 

"Camberwell:  June  4. 

"  Sir, — May  I  hope,  may  I  entreat,  that  you  will  favour  me  by 
perusing  the  enclosed  lines,  and  that  they  may  be  found  worthy  of 
insertion  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  ?  We  have  known  better  days, 
sir.  I  have  a  sick  and  widowed  mother  to  maintain,  and  little 
brothers  and  sisters  who  look  to  me.  I  do  my  utmost  as  a  gover- 
ness to  support  them.  I  toil  at  night  when  they  are  at  rest,  and 
ray  own  hand  and  brain  are  alike  tired.  If  I  could  add  but  a  little 
to  our  means  by  my  jien,  many  of  my  poor  invalid's  wants  might 
be  supplied,  and  I  could  procure  for  her  comforts  to  which  she  is 
now  a  stranger.  Heaven  knows  it  is  not  for  want  of  will  or  for 
want  of  energy  on  my  part  that  she  is  now  in  ill-health,  and  our 
little  household  almost  without  bread.  Do — do  cast  a  kind  glance 
over  my  poem,  and  if  you  can  help  us,  the  widow,  the  orphans  will 
bless  you !  —  I  remain,  sir,  in  anxious  expectancy,  your  faithful 
servant,  S.  S.  S." 

And  enclosed  is  a  little  poem  or  two,  and  an  envelope  with  its 
penny  stamp — Heaven  help  us!  —  and  the  writer's  name  and 
address. 

Now  you  sec  what  I  mean  by  a  thorn.  Here  is  the  case  put 
with   true  female  logic.      "  I   am  poor ;  I  am  good ;   I  am  ill ;   I 


214  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

work  hard ;  I  have  a  sick  mother  and  liungry  brothers  and  sisters 
dependent  on  me.  You  can  help  us  if  you  will."  And  then  I 
look  at  the  paper,  witli  the  thousandth  part  of  a  faint  hope  that 
it  may  be  suitable,  and  I  find  it  won't  do  :  and  I  knew  it  wouldn't 
do :  and  why  is  this  poor  lady  to  appeal  to  my  jjity  and  bring  her 
poor  little  ones  kneeling  to  my  bedside,  and  calling  for  bread  which 
I  can  give  them  if  I  choose  1  No  lUiy  passes  but  that  argument 
ad  misericordiam  is  used.  Day  and  night  that  sad  voice  is  crying 
out  for  help.  Thrice  it  appealed  to  me  yesterday.  Twice  this 
morning  it  cried  to  me  :  and  I  have  no  doubt  when  I  go  to  get 
my  hat,  I  shall  find  it  with  its  piteous  face  and  its  pale  family 
abovit  it,  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall.  One  of  the  inunense  advan- 
tages which  women  have  over  our  sex  is,  that  they  actually  like 
to  read  these  letters.  Like  letters  1  Oh  mercy  on  us  !  Before  I 
was  an  editor  I  did  not  like  the  postman  much  : — but  now  ! 

A  very  common  way  with  these  ])etitioners  is  to  begin  with  a 
fine  flummery  about  the  merits  and  eminent  genius  of  the  person 
whom  they  are  addressing.  But  this  artifice,  I  state  publicly,  is 
of  no  avail.  When  I  see  that  kind  of  herb,  I  know  the  snake 
within  it,  and  fling  it  away  before  it  has  time  to  sting.  Away, 
reptile,  to  the  waste-paper  basket,  and  thence  to  the  flames ! 

But  of  these  disappointed  people,  some  take  their  disappoint- 
ment and  meekly  bear  it.  Some  hate  and  hold  you  their  enemy 
because  you  could  not  be  their  friend.  Some,  furious  and  envious, 
say  :  "Who  is  this  man  who  refuses  what  I  off"er?  and  how  dares 
he,  the  conceited  coxcomb,  to  deny  my  merit  1 " 

Sometimes  my  letters  contain  not  mere  thorns,  but  bludgeons. 
Here  are  two  choice  slii)s  from  that  noble  Irish  oak  which  has  more 
than  once  supplied  alpeens  for  this  meek  and  unoffending  skull : — 

"  Theatre  Royal,  Donnybrook. 

"Sir, — I  htve  just  finished  readnig  the  first  portion  of  your 
Tale,  '  Lovel  the  Widower,'  and  am  much  surprised  at  the  un- 
warrantable strictures  you  pass  therein  on  the  corps  de  hallet. 

"  I  have  been  for  more  than  ten  years  connected  with  the 
theatrical  profession,  and  I  beg  to  assure  you  that  the  majority 
of  the  corps  de  ballet  are  virtuous  well-conducted  girls,  and, 
consequently,  that  snug  cottages  are  not  taken  for  them  in  the 
Regent's  Park. 

"  I  also  have  to  inform  you  that  theatrical  managers  are  in 
the  habit  of  speaking  good  English,  possibly  better  English  than 
authors. 

"You  either  know  nothing  of  the  subject  in  question,  or  you 
assert  a  wilful  falsehood. 


THE    EVKNING    POST. 


THORNS    IN    THE    CUSHION  215 

"  I  am  luippy  to  say  that  tlie  characters  of  the  corps  de  ballet, 
as  also  those  of  actors  and  actresses,  are  superior  to  the  siiarlings 
of  dysjjeptic  libellers,  or  the  spiteful  attacks  and  hrutum  fulmen  of 
ephemeral  authors. — I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"A.  B.  C. 

"The  Editor  of  the  Cornhill  l\[agazine." 

"Theatre  Royal,  Donnybrook. 

"  SiPv, — I  have  just  read,  in  the  Cornhill  Jfar/azine  for 
January,  the  first  jiortion  of  a  Tale  written  by  you,  and  entitled 
'  Lovel  the  Widower.' 

"  In  the  production  in  question  you  employ  all  your  malicious 
spite  (and  you  have  great  capabilities  that  way)  in  trying  to 
degrade  tlie  character  of  the  cor]>s  de  ballet.  When  you  imjtly 
that  the  majority  of  ballet-girls  have  villas  taken  for  them  in  the 
Regent's  Park,  1  say  you  tell  a  deliberate  falsehood. 

"  Haveing  been  brought  up  to  the  stage  from  infancy,  and, 
though  now  an  actress,  haveing  been  seven  years  principal  dancer 
at  the  opera,  I  am  competent  to  speak  on  the  subject.  I  am  only 
surprised  that  so  vile  a  libeller  as  yourself  should  be  allowed  to 
preside  at  the  Dramatic  Fund  dinner  on  the  22nd  instant.  I  think 
it  would  be  much  better  if  you  were  to  reform  your  own  life, 
instead  of  telling  lies  of  those  who  are  immeasurably  your 
sui^eriors. — Yours  in  supreme  disgust,  A.  D." 

The  signatures  of  the  respected  writers  are  altered,  and  for  the 
site  of  their  Theatre  Royal  an  adjacent  place  is  named,  which  (as 
I  may  have  been  falsely  informed)  used  to  be  famous  for  quarrels, 
thumps,  and  broken  Jieads.  But,  I  say,  is  this  an  easy  chair  to 
sit  on,  wlien  you  are  liable  to  liave  a  pair  of  such  shillelaglis  flung  at 
it  1  And,  prithee,  what  was  all  the  quarrel  about  1  In  the  little 
history  of  "Lovel  the  Widower"  I  described,  and  brought  to 
condign  jjunishment,  a  certain  wretch  of  a  ballet-dancer,  who  lived 
splendidly  for  a  while  on  ill-gotten  gains,  had  an  accident,  and  lost 
her  beauty,  and  died  poor,  deserted,  ugly,  and  every  way  odious. 
In  the  same  page,  other  little  ballet-dancers  are  descril)ed, 
wearing  homely  clothing,  doing  their  duty,  and  carrying  their 
humble  savings  to  the  family  at  home.  But  nothing  will  content 
my  dear  correspondents  but  to  have  me  declare  that  the  majority 
of  ballet-dancers  have  villas  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and  to  convict 
me  of  "deliberate  falsehood."  Suppose,  for  instance,  I  had  chosen 
to  introduce  a  red-haired  washerwoman  into  a  story?  I  might  get 
an  expostulatory  letter  saying,  "  Sir,  in  stating  that  the  majority 
of  washerwomen  are  red-haired,  you  are  a  liar !  and  you  had  best 


216  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

nut  speak  of  ladies  who  are  iuuneasurably  your  superiors."  Or 
suppose  I  liad  ventured  to  desciibe  an  illiterate  haberdasher'?  One 
of  the  craft  might  write  to  me,  "  Sir,  in  describing  haberdashers  as 
illiterate,  you  utter  a  wilful  falsehood.  Haberdashers  use  much 
better  English  than  authors."  It  is  a  mistake,  to  be  sure.  I  have 
never  said  what  my  correspondents  say  I  say.  There  is  the  text 
under  their  noses,  but  what  if  they  choose  to  read  it  their  own 
way  1  "  Hurroo,  lads  !  Here's  for  a  tight.  There's  a  bald  head 
peeping  out  of  the  hut.  There's  a  bald  head  !  It  must  be  Tim 
Malone's."     And  whack  !  come  down  both  the  bludgeons  at  once. 

Ah  me !  we  wound  where  we  never  intended  to  strike ;  we 
create  anger  where  we  never  meant  harm ;  and  these  thoughts  are 
the  thorns  in  our  Cushion.  Out  of  mere  malignity,  I  suppose, 
there  is  no  man  who  would  like  to  make  enemies.  But  here,  in 
this  editorial  business,  you  can't  do  otlierwise :  and  a  queer,  sad, 
strange,  bitter  thought  it  is,  that  must  cross  the  mind  of  many  a 
public  man  :  "  Do  what  I  will,  be  innocent  or  spiteful,  be  generous 
or  cruel,  there  are  A  and  B,  and  C  and  D,  wlio  will  hate  me  to  the 
end  of  the  chapter — to  the  (ihapter's  end — to  the  Finis  of  the  page 
— when  hate,  and  envy,  and  fortune,  and  disjippointment  shall 
be  over." 


ON  SCREENS  IN  DINING-ROOMS 


A  GRANDSON  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Primrose  (of  Wakefield, 
vicar)  wrote  me  a  little  note  from  his  country  living  this 
morning,  and  the  kind  fellow  had  the  precaution  to  Avrite 
"  No  thorn  "  upon  the  envelope,  so  that,  ere  I  broke  the  seal,  my 
mind  might  be  relieved  of  any  anxiety  lest  the  letter  should  contain 
one  of  those  lurking  stabs  wliich  are  so  i)ainful  to  the  jjresent  gentle 
writer.  Your  epigraph,  my  dear  P.,  shows  your  kind  and  artless 
nature ;  but  don't  you  see  it  is  of  no  use  1  People  who  are  bent 
upon  assassinating  you  in  tlie  manner  mentioned  will  write  "  No 
thorn "  upon  their  envelopes  too ;  and  you  open  the  case,  and 
presently  out  flies  a  poisoned  stiletto,  which  springs  into  a 
man's  bosom,  and  makes  the  wretch  howl  with  anguish.  When 
the  bailiffs  are  after  a  man,  tliey  adopt  all  sorts  of  disguises,  pop 
out  on  him  from  all  conceivable  corners,  and  tap  his  miserable 
shoulder.  His  wife  is  taken  ill ;  his  sweetheart,  who  remarked  his 
brilliant,  too  brilliant  appearance  at  the  Hyde  Park  review,  will 
meet  him  at  Cremorne,  or  where  you  will.  The  old  friend  who  has 
owed  him  that  money  these  five  years  will  meet  him  at  So-and-so 
and  pay.  By  one  bait  or  other  the  victim  is  hooked,  netted,  landed, 
and  down  goes  the  basket-lid.  It  is  not  your  wife,  your  sweetheart, 
your  friend,  who  is  going  to  pay  you.     It  is  Mr.  Nab  the  bailiff. 

Yoti  know you  are  caught.     You  are  off  in  a  cab  to  Chancery 

Lane. 

You  know,  I  say  1  Why  should  you  know  ?  I  make  no 
manner  of  doubt  you  never  were  taken  by  a  bailift"  in  your  life.  I 
never  was.  I  have  been  in  two  or  three  debtors'  prisons,  but  not  on 
my  own  account.  Goodness  be  praised  !  I  mean  you  can't  escape 
your  lot ;  and  Nab  only  stands  here  metaphorically  as  the  watchful, 
certain,  and  untiring  officer  of  Mr.  Sheriff"  Fate.  Why,  my  dear 
Primrose,  this  morning  along  with  your  letter  comes  another,  bear- 
ing the  well-known  superscription  of  another  old  friend,  which  I 
open  without  tlie  least  sus])icion,  and  what  do  I  find?  A  few  lines 
from  my  friend  Johnson,  it  is  true,  but  tliey  are  written  on  a  page 
covered  with  feminine  handwriting.     "Dear  Mr.  Johnson,"  says  the 


iJl8  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

writer,  "  I  have  just  been  perusing  -with  delight  a  most  charming 
tale  by  the  Archlnshop  of  Cambray.  It  is  called  '  Teleniachus ' ; 
and  I  think  it  would  be  admirably  suited  to  the  Cornhill  Magazine. 
As  you  know  tlie  Editor,  will  you  have  the  great  kindness,  dear 
Mr.  Johnson,  to  communicate  with  him  personally  (as  tliat  is  much 
better  than  writing  in  a  roundabout  way  to  the  Publishers,  and 
waiting  goodness  knows  how  long  for  an  answer),  and  state  my 
readiness  to  translate  this  excellent  and  instructive  story?  I  do 
not  wish  to  breathe  a  word  against  '  Lovel  Parsonage,'  '  Framley 
the  Widower,'  or  any  of  the  novels  which  have  appeared  in  the 
Cornhill  Ma(ja-.me,  but  I  am  sure  '  Teleniachus '  is  as  good  as  new 

to  English  readers,  and  in  point  of  interest  and  morality  far ' 

&c.  &c.  &c. 

There  it  is.  I  am  stabbed  through  Johnson.  He  has  lent 
himself  to  this  attack  on  nie.  He  is  weak  about  women.  Other 
strong  men  are.  He  submits  to  the  common  lot,  poor  fellow.  In 
my  reply  I  do  not  use  a  word  of  unkindness.  I  write  him  back 
gently,  that  I  fear  "  Telemachus  "  won't  suit  us.  He  can  send  the 
letter  on  to  his  fair  corres])ondent.  But  however  soft  the  answer,  I 
question  whether  the  wrath  will  be  turned  away.  Will  thei'e  not 
be  a  coolness  between  him  and  tlie  lady'?  and  is  it  not  possible  that 
henceforth  her  fine  eyes  will  look  with  darkling  glances  upon  the 
pretty  orange  cover  of  our  Magazine  1 

Certain  writers,  they  say,  have  a  bad  o])inion  of  women.  Now 
am  I  very  whimsical  in  supposing  that  this  disappointed  candidate 
will  be  hurt  at  her  rejection,  and  angiy  or  cast  down  according  to 
her  nature  1  "  Angry,  indeed  !  "  says  Juno,  gathering  up  her  purple 
robes  and  Royal  raiment.  "  Sorry,  indeed  ! "  cries  Minerva,  lacing 
on  her  corslet  again,  and  scowling  under  her  helmet.  (I  imagine 
the  well-known  Apple  case  has  just  been  argued  and  decided.) 
"  Hurt,  forsooth  !  Do  you  suppose  we  care  for  the  opinion  of  that 
hobnailed  lout  of  a  Paris  1  Do  you  suppose  that  I,  the  Goddess  of 
Wisilom,  can't  make  allowances  for  mortal  ignorance,  and  am  so 
base  as  to  bear  malice  against  a  poor  creature  who  knows  no  better  ] 
You  little  know  the  goddess  nature  when  you  dare  to  insinuate  that 
our  divine  minds  are  actuated  by  motives  so  base.  A  love  of  justice 
influences  us.  AVe  are  above  mean  revenge.  We  are  too  magnan-i- 
raous  to  be  angry  at  the  award  of  such  a  judge  in  favour  of  such  a 
creature."  And  rustling  out  their  skirts,  the  ladies  walk  away 
together.  This  is  all  very  well.  You  are  bound  to  believe  them. 
They  are  actuated  by  no  hostility  :  not  they.  They  bear  no  malice 
— -of  course  not.  But  when  the  Trojan  war  occurs  presently,  which 
side  will  they  take"?  Many  brave  souls  will  be  sent  to  Hades. 
Hector  will  perish.     Poor  old  Priam's  bald  numskull  will  be  cracked, 


ON    SCREENS    IN   DINING-ROOMS  219 

and  Troy  town  will  burn,  because  Paris  jjrefers  golden-haired  Venus 
to  ox-eyed  Juno  and  grey-eyed  Minerva. 

The  last  Essay  of  this  Roundabout  Series,  describing  the  griefs 
and  miseries  of  the, editorial  chair,  Avas  written,  as  the  kind  reader 
will  acknowledge,  in  a  mild  and  gentle,  not  in  a  warlike  or  satirical 
spirit.  I  showed  how  cudgels  were  applied ;  but,  surely,  the  meek 
object  of  persecution  hit  no  blows  in  return.  The  beating  did  not 
hurt  much,  and  the  i)erson  assaulted  could  afford  to  keej)  his  good- 
humour  ;  indeed,  I  admired  that  brave  though  illogical  little  actress, 
of  the  T.  R.  D-bl-n,  for  her  fiery  vindication  of  her  profession's 
honour.  I  assure  her  I  had  no  intention  to  tell  1 — s — well,  let  us 
say,  monosyllables — about  my  superiors  :  and  I  wish  her  nothing 
but  well,  and  when  Macmahon  (or  shall  it  be  Mulligan?)  Roi 
d'ldande  ascends  his  throne,  I  hope  she  may  be  appointed  Professor 
of  English  to  tlie  princesses  of  the  Royal  house.  K^iper — in  former 
days — I  too  have  militated ;  sometimes,  as  I  now  think,  unjustly  ; 
but  always,  I  vow,  Avithout  personal  rancour.  Which  of  us  has  not 
idle  words  to  recall,  flippant  jokes  to  regret  ?  Have  you  never  com- 
mitted an  imprudence  1  HaA^e  you  never  had  a  dispute,  and  found 
out  that  you  Av ere  Avrong  ?  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  Woe  be 
to  the  man  qui  croit  tottjours  avoir  raison.  His  anger  is  not  a 
brief  madness,  but  a  permanent  mania.  His  rage  is  not  a  fever-fit, 
but  a  black  poison  inflaming  him,  distorting  his  judgment,  disturbing 
his  rest,  embittering  his  cup,  gnaAving  at  his  pleasures,  causing  him 
more  cruel  suffering  than  ever  he  can  inflict  on  his  enemy.  0  la 
belle  morale  !  As  I  AA'rite  it,  I  think  about  one  or  two  little  atiairs 
of  my  OAvn.  There  is  old  Dr.  Squaretoso  (he  certainly  Avas  very 
rude  to  me,  and  that's  the  fact) ;  there  is  Madame  Pomposa  (and 
certainly  her  ladyship's  behaviour  was  about  as  cool  as  cool  could 
be).  Never  mind,  old  Squaretoso  :  never  mind,  Madame  Pomposa  ! 
Here  is  a  hand.  Let  us  be  friends,  as  Ave  once  Avere,  and  have  no 
more  of  this  rancour. 

I  had  hardly  sent  that  last  Roundabout  Paper  to  the  printer 
(which,  I  submit,  Avas  written  in  a  pacable  and  not  unchristian 
frame  of  mind),  when  Saturday  came,  and  Avith  it,  of  course,  my 
Saturday  Review.  I  remember  at  New  York  coming  down  to 
breakfast  at  the  hotel  one  morning,  after  a  criticism  had  appeared 
in  the  J!{ew  York  Herald,  in  Avhich  an  Irish  writer  had  given  me 
a  dressing  for  a  certain  lecture  on  SAvift.  Ah  !  my  dear  little 
enemy  of  the  T.  R.  D.,  what  were  the  cudgels  in  ^jour  little  lillet- 
doux  compared  Avilh  those  noble  Ncav  York  shillelaghs?  All 
through  the  Union,  the  literary  sons  of  Erin  have  marched  alpcen- 
stock  in  hand,  and  in  every  city  of  the  States  they  call  each  other 
and  everybody  else  the  finest  names.     Having  come  to  breakfast, 


220  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

then,  in  the  public  room,  I  sit  down,  and  see — that  the  nine  people 
opposite  have  all  got  Neiv  York  Heralds  in  their  hands.  One  dear 
little  lady,  whom  I  knew,  and  Avho  sat  opposite,  gave  a  prettj^ 
blush,  and  popped  her  paper  under  the  tablecloth.  I  told  her  I 
had  had  my  whipping  already  in  my  own  private  room,  and  begged 
her  to  continue  her  reading.  I  may  have  undergone  agonies,  you 
see ;  but  every  man  who  has  been  bred  at  an  English  public  school 
comes  away  from  a  private  interview  with  Doctor  Birch  with  a 
calm,  even  a  smiling  face.  And  this  is  not  impossible,  when  you 
are  prepared.  You  screw  your  courage  up — you  go  through  the 
business.  You  come  back  and  take  your  seat  on  the  form,  showing 
not  the  least  symptom  of  uneasiness  or  of  previous  unpleasantries. 
But  to  be  caught  suddenly  up,  and  whipped  in  the  bosom  of  your 
family — to  sit  down  to  breakfast,  and  cast  your  innocent  eye  on  a 
paper,  and  find,  before  you  are  aware,  that  the  Saturday  Monitor 
or  Black  Monday  Instructor  has  hoisted  you  and  is  laying  on — 
that  is  indeed  a  trial.  Or  perhaps  the  family  has  looked  at  the 
dreadful  paper  beforehand,  and  weakly  tries  to  liide  it.  "Where 
is  the  Instructor,  or  the  Monitor?"  say  you.  "AVhere  is  that 
paper  1 "  says  mamma  to  one  of  the  young  ladies.  Lucy  hasn't  it. 
Fanny  hasn't  seen  it.  Emily  thinks  that  the  governess  has  it.  At 
last,  out  it  is  brought,  that  awful  paper  !  Pai)a  is  amazingly  tickled 
with  the  article  on  Thomson ;  thinks  that  show-up  of  Johnson  is 
very  lively  •  and  now — Heaven  be  good  to  us  ! — he  has  come  to  the 
critique  on  himself: — "  Of  all  the  rubbish  which  we  have  had  from 
Mr.  Tomkins,  we  do  protest  and  vow  that  this  last  cartload  is  "  &c. 
Ah  !  poor  Tomkins  ! — but  most  of  all,  ah  !  poor  Mrs.  Tomkins,  and 
poor  Emily,  and  Fanny,  and  Lucy,  who  have  to  sit  by  and  see 
paterfamilias  put  to  the  torture  ! 

Now,  on  this  eventful  Saturday,  I  did  not  cry,  because  it  was 
not  so  much  the  Editor  as  the  Publisher  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
who  was  brought  out  for  a  dressing;  and  it  is  wonderful  how 
gallantly  one  bears  the  misfortunes  of  one's  friends.  That  a  writer 
should  be  taken  to  task  about  his  books  is  fiiir,  and  he  must  abide 
the  praise  or  the  censure.  But  that  a  publisher  should  be  criticised 
for  his  dinners,  and  for  tlie  conversation  which  did  not  take  place 
there, — is  this  tolerable  press  practice,  legitimate  joking,  or  honom-- 
able  warfare?  I  have  not  the  honour  to  know  my  next-door 
neighbour,  but  I  make  no  doubt  that  he  receives  his  friends  at 
dinner;  I  see  his  wife  and  children  pass  constantly;  I  even  know 
the  carriages  of  some  of  the  people  who  call  upon  him,  and  could 
tell  their  names.  Now,  suppose  his  servants  were  to  tell  mine 
what  the  doings  are  next  door,  who  comes  to  dinner,  what  is  eaten 
and  said,  and  I  were  to  publish  an  account  of  these  transactions  in 


ON    SCREENS    IN    DINING-ROOMS  221 

a  newspaper,  I  could  assuredly  get  money  for  the  report ;  hut  ought 
I  to  write  it,  and  what  would  you  think  of  me  for  doing  so  1 

And  suppose,  Mi-.  Saturday  Reviewer — you  censor  mormn,  you 
who  pique  yourself  (and  justly  and  honourably  in  the  main)  upon 
yoirr  character  of  gentleman,  as  well  as  of  writer, — suppose,  not 
that  you  yourself  invent  and  indite  absurd  twaddle  about  gentle- 
men's private  meetings  and  transactions,  but  pick  this  wretched 
garbage  out  of  a  New  York  sheet,  and  hold  it  up  for  your  readers' 
amusement — don't  you  think,  my  friend,  that  you  might  have  been 
better  employed"?  Here,  in  my  Saturday  Review,  and  in  an 
American  jjaper  subsequently  sent  to  me,  I  light,  astonished,  on  an 
account  of  the  dinners  of  my  friend  and  publisher,  which  are  de- 
scribed as  "tremendously  heavy,"  of  the  conversation  (which  does 
not  take  place),  and  of  the  guests  assembled  at  the  table.  I  am 
informed  that  the  proprietor  of  the  CornhiU,  and  the  host  on  these 
occasions,  is  "a  very  good  man,  but  totally  unread ; "  and  that  on 
my  asking  him  whether  Doctor  Johnson  was  dining  behind  the 
screen,  he  said,  "  God  bless  my  soul,  my  dear  sir,  there's  no  person 
by  the  name  of  Johnson  here,  nor  any  one  behind  the  screen,"  and 
that  a  roar  of  laughter  cut  him  short.  I  am  informed  by  the  same 
New  York  correspondent  that  I  have  touched  up  a  contributors 
article ;  that  I  once  said  to  a  literary  gentleman,  who  was  proudly 
pointing  to  an  anonymous  article  as  his  writing,  "  Ah  !  I  thought  I 
recognised  your  hoof  m  it."  I  am  told  by  the  same  authority  that 
the  CornhiU  Magazine  "shows  symptoms  of  being  on  the  wane," 
and  having  sold  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  copies,  he  (the  correspon- 
dent) "  should  think  forty  thousand  was  now  about  the  mark." 
Then  the  graceful  writer  passes  on  to  the  dinners,  at  which  it 
appears  the  Editor  of  the  Magazine  "  is  the  great  gun,  and  comes 
out  with  all  the  geniality  in  his  power." 

Now  suppose  this  charming  intelligence  is  untrue  ?  Suppose 
the  publisher  (to  recall  the  words  of  my  friend  the  Dublin  actor  of 
last  month)  is  a  gentleman  to  the  full  as  well  informed  as  those 
whom  he  invites  to  his  table  ?  Suppose  he  never  made  the  remark, 
beginning  "  God  bless  my  soul,  my  dear  sir,"  &c.,  nor  anything 
resembling  it  1  Suppose  nobody  roared  with  laughing  ?  Suppose 
the  Editor  of  the  CornhiU  Jfar/azine  never  "  touched  up "  one 
single  line  of  the  contribution  which  bears  "  marks  of  his  hand  *  1 
Suppose  he  never  said  to  any  literary  gentleman,  "  I  recognised 
your  hoof"  in  any  periodical  whatever'?  Sup])ose  the  forty  thou- 
sand subscribers,  which  the  writer  to  New  York  "  considered  to  be 
about  the  mark,"  should  be  between  ninety  thousand  and  a  hundred 
thousand  (and  as  he  will  have  figures,  there  they  are)?  Su])i)Ose 
this    back-door   gossip    should   be  utterly  blundering  and   untrue, 


5222  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

would  any  one  wonder  1  Ah  !  if  we  had  only  enjoyed  the  happiness 
to  number  this  writer  among  the  contributors  to  our  Magazine, 
what  a  cheerfulness  and  easy  confidence  his  presence  would  impart 
to  our  meetings  !  He  Avould  find  that  "  poor  Mr.  Smith  "  had  heard 
that  recondite  anecdote  of  Doctor  Johnson  behind  the  screen ;  and 
as  for  "  the  great  gun  of  those  banquets,"  with  what  geniality 
should  not  I  "  come  out "  if  I  liad  an  amiable  companion  close  by 
me,  dotting  down  my  conversation  for  the  JVetv  York  Times  ! 

Attack  our  books,  Mr.  Correspondent,  and  Avelcome.  Tliey  are 
fair  subjects  for  just  censure  or  praise.  But  woe  be  to  you,  if  you 
allow  private  rancours  or  animosities  to  influence  you  in  the  dis- 
charge of  your  public  duty  !  In  the  little  court  where  you  are  paid 
to  sit  as  judge,  as  critic,  you  owe  it  to  your  employers,  to  your 
conscience,  to  the  honour  of  your  calling,  to  deliver  just  sentences ; 
and  you  shall  have  to  answer  to  Heaven  for  your  dealings,  as  surely 
as  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  on  the  Bench.  The  dignity  of  letters, 
the  honour  of  the  literary  calling,  the  slights  put  by  haughty  and 
untliinking  people  upon  literary  men, — don't  we  hear  outcries  upon 
these  subjects  raised  daily  ?  As  dear  Sam  Johnson  sits  behind  the 
screen,  too  proud  to  show  his  threadbare  coat  and  patches  among 
the  more  prosperous  brethren  of  his  trade,  there  is  no  want  of 
dignity  in  him,  in  that  homely  image  of  labour  ill-rewarded,  genius 
as  yet  unrecognised,  independence  sturdy  and  uncomplaining.  But 
Mr.  Nameless,  behind  the  publisher's  screen  uninvited,  ])eering  at 
the  company  and  the  meal,  catching  up  scraps  of  the  jokes,  and 
noting  down  the  guests'  behaviour  and  conversation — what  a  figure 
his  is  !  Allons,  Mr.  Nameless  !  Put  up  your  notebook  ;  walk  out 
of  the  hall ;  and  leave  gentlemen  alone  who  would  be  private,  and 
wish  you  no  harm. 


TUN  BRIDGE  TOYS 


1  WONDER  "wliether  those  little  silver  pencil-cases  with  a  mov- 
able almanack  at  the  butt-end  are  still  favourite  implements 
with  boys,  and  whether  pedlars  still  hawk  them  about  the 
country  1  Are  there  jjcdlars  and  hawkers  still,  or  are  rustics  and 
children  grown  too  sharp  to  deal  with  them  1  Those  pencil-cases, 
as  far  as  my  memory  serves  me,  wei'e  not  of  much  use.  The  screw, 
upon  which  the  movable  almanack  turned,  was  constantly  getting 
loose.  The  1  of  the  table  would  work  from  its  moorings,  under 
Tuesday  or  Wednesday,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  you  would  find, 
on  examination,  that  Th.  or  W.  was  the  23|  of  the  month  (which 
was  absurd  on  the  face  of  the  thing),  and  in  a  word  your  cherished 
pencil-case  an  utterly  unreliable  time-keeper.  Nor  was  this  a 
matter  of  wonder.  Consider  the  position  of  a  pencil-case  in  a  boy's 
jjocket.  You  had  hardbake  in  it ;  marbles,  kept  in  your  purse 
when  the  money  was  all  gone ;  your  mother's  purse,  knitted  so 
fondly  and  supplied  with  a  little  bit  of  gold,  long  since — ])rodigal 
little  son  ! — scattered  amongst  the  swine — I  mean  amongst  brandy- 
balls,  open  tarts,  three-cornered  puffs,  and  similar  abominations. 
You  had  a  top  and  string ;  a  knife  ;  a  ])iece  of  cobbler's  wax  ;  two 
or  three  bullets  ;  a  "  Little  Warbler  "  ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  remember, 
for  a  considerable  period,  a  brass-barrelled  pocket-pistol  (which  would 
fire  beautifully,  for  with  it  I  shot  off"  a  button  from  Butt  Major's 
jacket) ; — with  all  these  things,  and  ever  so  many  more,  clinking 
and  rattling  in  your  pockets,  and  your  hands,  of  course,  keeping 
them  in  perpetual  movement,  how  could  you  expect  your  movable 
almanack  not  to  be  twisted  out  of  its  place  now  and  again — your 
pencil-case  to  be  bent — your  liquorice  water  not  to  leak  out  of  your 
bottle  over  the  cobbler's  wax,  your  bull's-eyes  not  to  ram  uj)  the 
lock  and  barrel  of  your  pistol,  and  so  forth  ? 

In  the  month  of  June,  thirty-seven  years  ago,  I  bought  one  of 
those  pencil-cases  from  a  boy  Avhom  I  shall  call  Hawker,  and  who 
was  in  my  form.  Is  he  dead  1  Is  he  a  millionare  ?  Is  he  a 
bankrupt  nowl  He  was  an  immense  screw  at  school,  and  I 
believe   to   this   day   that   the   value   of  the   thing   for  which    I 


2ii4.  EOUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

owed  aiul  eventually  paid   tliree-and-sixi)ence,   was  in  reality  not 
one-and-nine. 

I  certainly  enjoyed  the  case  at  first  a  good  deal,  and  amused 
myself  with  twiddling  round  the  movable  calendar.  But  this 
pleasure  wore  off.  The  jewel,  as  I  said,  was  not  paid  for,  and 
Hawker,  a  large  and  violent  boy,  was  exceedingly  unpleasant  as  a 
creditor.  His  constant  remark  was,  "When  are  you  going  to  pay 
me  that  three-and-sixpence  1  What  sneaks  your  relations  must  be  ! 
They  come  to  see  you.  You  go  out  to  them  on  Saturdays  and 
Sundays,  and  they  never  give  you  anything !  Don't  tell  me,  you 
little  humbug ! "  and  so  forth.  The  truth  is  that  my  relations 
were  respectable ;  but  my  parents  were  making  a  tour  in  Scotland ; 
and  my  friends  in  London,  whom  I  used  to  go  and  see,  were  most 
kind  to  me,  certainly,  but  somehow  never  tipped  me.  That  term, 
of  May  to  August  1823,  passed  in  agonies,  then,  in  consequence  of 
my  debt  to  Hawker.  What  was  the  pleasure  of  a  calendar  pencil- 
case  in  comparison  with  the  doubt  and  torture  of  mind  occasioned 
by  the  sense  of  the  debt,  and  the  constant  reproach  in  that  fellow's 
scowling  eyes  and  gloomy  coarse  reminders'?  How  was  I  to  pay 
off  such  a  debt  out  of  sixpence  a  week  1  ludicrous  !  Why  did  not 
some  one  come  to  see  me,  and  tip  me  1  Ah !  my  dear  sir,  if  you 
have  any  little  friends  at  school,  go  and  see  them,  and  do  the 
natural  thing  by  them.  You  won't  miss  the  sovereign.  You  don't 
know  what  a  blessing  it  will  be  to  them.  Don't  fancy  they  are 
too  old — try  'em.  And  they  will  remember  you,  and  bless  you 
in  future  days ;  and  their  gratitude  shall  accompany  your  dreary 
after  life ;  and  they  shall  meet  you  kindly  when  thanks  for  kind- 
ness are  scant.  Oh  mercy  !  shall  I  ever  forget  that  sovereign  you 
gave  me.  Captain  Bob]  or  the  agonies  of  being  in  debt  to 
Hawker"?  In  that  very  term,  a  relation  of  mine  was  going  to 
India.  I  actually  was  fetched  from  school  in  order  to  take  leave 
of  him.  I  am  afraid  I  told  Hawker  of  this  circumstance.  I  own 
I  speculated  upon  my  friend's  giving  me  a  pound.  A  pound'? 
Pooh  !  A  relation  going  to  India,  and  deeply  affected  at  parting 
from  his  darling  kinsman,  might  give  five  pounds  to  the  dear 
fellow !  .  .  .  There  was  Hawker  when  I  came  back — of  course 
there  he  was.  As  he  looked  in  my  scared  face,  his  turned  livid 
with  rage.  He  muttered  curses,  terrible  from  the  lips  of  so  young 
a  boy.  My  relation,  about  to  cross  the  ocean  to  fill  a  lucrative 
appointment,  asked  me  with  much  interest  about  my  progress  at 
school,  heard  me  construe  a  passage  of  Eutropius,  the  pleasing 
Latin  work  on  which  I  was  then  engaged ;  gave  me  a  God  bless 
you,  and  sent  me  back  to  s(;hool ;  upon  ray  word  of  honour, 
without    so    much    as    a    half-crown !      It   is   all   very    well,    my 


TUNBRIDGE    TOYS  225 

dear  sir,  to  say  that  boys  contract  habits  of  expecting  tips  from 
their  parents'  friends,  that  they  become  avaricious,  and  so  forth. 
Avaricious  !  fudge  !  Boys  contract  habits  of  tart  and  toffee-eating, 
which  they  do  not  carry  into  after  life.  On  the  contrary,  I  wish  I 
did  like  'em.  What  raptures  of  pleasure  one  could  have  now  for 
five  shillings,  if  one  could  but  pick  it  off  the  pastry-cook's  tray  ! 
No.  If  you  have  any  little  friends  at  school,  out  with  your  half- 
crowns,  my  friend,  and  impart  to  those  little  ones  the  little  fleeting 
joys  of  their  age. 

Well,  then.  At  the  beginning  of  August  1823,  Bartlemytide 
holidays  came,  and  I  was  to  go  to  my  parents,  who  were  at  Tun- 
bridge  Wells.  My  place  in  the  coach  was  taken  by  my  tutor's 
servants — "Bolt-in-Tun,"  Fleet  Street,  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 

was  the  word.     My  Tutor,  the  Reverend  Edward  P ,  to  whom 

I  hereby  present  my  best  compliments,  had  a  parting  interview  with 
me  :  gave  me  my  little  account  for  my  governor :  the  remaining 
part  of  the  coacli-hire ;  five  shillings  for  my  own  expenses ;  and 
some  five-and-twenty  shillings  on  an  old  account  which  had  been 
overpaid,  and  was  to  be  restored  to  my  family. 

Away  I  ran  and  paid  Hawker  his  three-and-six.  Ouf!  what 
a  weight  it  was  off  my  mind  !  (He  was  a  Norfolk  boy,  and  used 
to  go  home  from  Mrs.  Nelson's  "  Bell  Inn,"  Aldgate — but  that  is 
not  to  tlie  point.)  The  next  morning,  of  course,  we  were  an  hour 
before  the  time.  I  and  another  boy  shared  a  hackney-coach,  two- 
and-six ;  porter  for  putting  luggage  on  coach,  tlireepence.  I  had 
no  more  money  of  my  own  left.  Rasherwell,  my  companion,  went 
into  the  "  Bolt-in-Tun  "  coffee-room,  and  had  a  good  breakfast.  I 
couldn't :  because,  though  I  had  five-and-twenty  "shilliiigs  of  my 
parents'  money,  I  had  none  of  my  own,  you  see. 

I  certainly  intended  to  go  without  breakfast,  and  still  re- 
member how  strongly  I  had  that  resolution  in  my  mind.  But 
there  was  that  hour  to  wait.  A  beautiful  August  morning — I 
am  very  hungry.  There  is  Rasherwell  "  tucking "  away  in  the 
coffee-room.  I  pace  the  street,  as  sadly  almost  as  if  I  had  been 
coming  to  school,  not  going  thence.  I  turn  into  a  court  by  mere 
chance — I  vow  it  was  by  mere  chance — and  there  I  see  a  coffee- 
shop  with  a  jjlacard  in  the  window,  "  Coffee,  Twopence.  Round  of 
buttered  toast,  Twopence."  And  here  am  I,  hungry,  penniless, 
with  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my  parents'  money  in  my  pocket. 

What  would  you  have  done?  You  see  I  had  had  my  money, 
and  spent  it  in  that  pencil-case  affair.  The  five-and-twenty  shillings 
were  a  trust — by  me  to  be  handed  over. 

But  then  would  my  parents  wish  their  only  child  to  be  actually 
without  breakfast  ?     Having  this  money,  and  being  so  hungry,  so 


220  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

very  liiiiigry,  mightn't  I  take  ever  so  little  %  Mightn't  I  at  home 
eat  as  much  as  I  chuse  % 

Well,  I  went  into  the  cofFee-shop,  and  spent  fourpence.  I 
remember  the  taste  of  the  coffee  and  toast  to  this  day — a  peculiar, 
muddy,  not-sweet-enough,  most  fragrant  coffee — a  rich,  rancid,  yet 
not-buttered-enough,  delicious  toast.  The  waiter  had  nothing.  At 
any  rate,  fourpence,  I  know,  was  the  sum  I  spent.  And  the 
hunger  appeased,  I  got  on  the  coach  a  guilty  being. 

At  the  last  stage, — what  is  its  name  %  I  have  forgotten  in 
seven-and- thirty  years, — there  is  an  inn  with  a  little  green  and 
trees  before  it ;  and  by  the  trees  there  is  an  open  carriage.  It  is 
our  carriage.  Yes,  there  are  Prince  and  Blucher,  the  horses ;  and 
my  parents  in  tlie  carriage.  Oh  !  how  I  had  been  counting  the 
days  until  this  one  came  !  Oh  !  how  happy  had  I  been  to  see 
them  yesterday  !  But  there  was  that  fourpence.  All  the  journey 
down  the  toast  had  choked  me,  and  the  coffee  poisoned  me. 

I  was  in  such  a  state  of  remorse  about  the  foiu'pence,  that  I 
forgot  tiie  maternal  joy  and  caresses,  the  tender  paternal  voice.  I 
pull  out  the  twenty-four  shillings  and  eightpeiice  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

"  Here's  your  money,"  I  gasp  out,  "which  Mr.  P owes  you, 

all  but  fourpence.  I  owed  three-and-sixpence  to  Hawker  out  of 
my  money  for  a  pencil-case,  and  I  had  none  left,  and  I  took  four- 
pence  of  yours,  and  had  some  coffee  at  a  shop." 

I  suppose  I  naust  have  been  choking  whilst  uttering  this 
confession. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  says  the  governor,  "  why  didn't  you  go  and 
breakfast  <at  the  hotel  % " 

"  He  must  be  starved,"  says  my  mother. 

I  had  confessed ;  I  had  been  a  prodigal ;  I  had  been  taken 
back  to  my  i^arents'  arms  again.  It  was  not  a  very  great  ci'ime  as 
yet,  or  a  very  long  career  of  prodigality ;  but  don't  we  know  that 
a  boy  who  takes  a  jjin  which  is  not  his  own,  will  take  a  thousand 
pounds  when  occasion  serves,  bring  his  ])arents'  grey  heads  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  carry  his  own  to  the  gallows  %  Witness 
the  career  of  Dick  Idle,  upon  whom  our  friend  Mr.  Sala  has  been 
discoursing.  Dick  only  began  by  playing  pitch-and-toss  on  a  tomb- 
stone :  playing  fair,  for  what  we  know  :  and  even  for  that  sin  he 
was  promptly  caned  by  the  beadle.  The  bamboo  was  ineffectual 
to  cane  that  reprobate's  bad  courses  out  of  him.  From  pitch- 
and-toss  he  proceeded  to  manslaughter  if  necessary  :  to  highway 
robbery  ;  to  Tyburn  and  the  rope  there.  All !  Heaven  be  thanked, 
my  parents'  heads  are  still  above  the  grass,  and  mine  still  out  of 
the  noose. 


A    RIDING    LESSON. 


TUNBRIDGE    TOYS  227 

As  I  look  11])  from  my  desk,  I  see  Tunbridge  Wells  Common  and 
the  rocks,  the  strange  familiar  place  which  I  remeniLcr  forty  yeais 
ago.  Boys  saunter  over  the  green  with  stumps  and  cricket-bats. 
Other  boys  gallop  by  on  the  riding-master's  hacks.  I  protest 
it  is  "Cramp,  Riding  Master,"  as  it  used  to  be  in  the  reign  of 
George  IV.,  and  that  Centaur  Cramp  must  be  at  least  a  hundred 
years  old.  Yonder  comes  a  footman  with  a  bundle  of  novels  finm 
the  library.  Are  they  as  good  as  our  novels?  Oh  !  how  delightful 
they  were  !  Shades  of  Valancour,  awful  ghost  of  Manfroiii,  how  I 
shudder  at  your  appearance  !  Sweet  image  of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw, 
how  often  has  this  almost  infantile  hand  tried  to  depict  you  in  a 
Polisli  cap  and  richly  embroidered  tights  !  And  as  for  Corinthian 
Tom  in  light  blue  pantaloons  and  hessians,  and  Jerry  Hawthorn 
from  the  country,  can  all  the  fashion,  can  all  the  splendour  of  real 
life  which  these  eyes  have  subsequently  beheld,  can  all  the  wit  I 
have  heard  or  read  in  later  times,  compare  with  your  fasliion,  with 
your  brilliancy,  with  your  delightful  grace,  and  sparkling  vivacious 
rattle  1 

Who  knows?  They  may  \vA\e  kept  those  very  books  at  the 
library  still — at  the  well-remembered  library  on  the  Pantiles, 
where  they  sell  that  delightful,  useful  Tunbridge  ware.  I  will  go 
and  see.  I  wend  my  way  to  the  Pantiles,  the  queer  little  old- 
world  Pantiles,  where,  a  hundred  years  since,  so  much  good  com- 
pany came  to  take  its  pleasure.  Is  it  possible,  that  in  the  past 
century,  gentlefolks  of  the  first  rank  (as  I  read  lately  in  a  lecture  on 
George  II.  in  the  Cornhill  Jfaffazine)  assembled  here  and  entertained 
each  otJier  with  gaming,  dancing,  fiddling,  and  tea?  There  are 
tiddlers,  harpers,  and  trumpeters  jierforming  at  this  moment  in  a 
weak  little  old  balcony,  but  where  is  the  fine  company  ?  Where 
are  the  earls,  duchesses,  bishops,  and  magnificent  embroidered 
gamesters  ?  A  half-dozen  of  children  and  their  nurses  are  listening 
to  the  musicians ;  an  old  lady  or  two  in  a  j)oke  bonnet  passes  ;  and 
for  the  rest,  I  see  but  an  uninteresting  population  of  native  trades- 
men. As  for  the  library,  its  window  is  full  of  jtictures  of  burly 
theologians,  and  their  works,  sermons,  apologues,  and  so  forth. 
Can  I  go  in  and  ask  the  young  ladies  at  the  counter  for  "Manfroni, 
or  the  One-handed  Monk,"  and  "  Life  in  London,  6r  the  Adventures 
of  Corinthian  Tom,  Jeremiali  Hawthorn,  Es(juire,  and  their  friend 
Bob  Logic "  ? — absurd.  I  turn  away  abashed  from  the  casement 
— from  the  Pantiles— no  longer  Pantiles,  but  Parade.  I  stroll  over 
the  Common  and  survey  the  beautiful  purple  hills  around,  twink- 
ling with  a  thousand  bright  villas,  which  have  sprung  up  over  this 
charming  ground  since  first  I  saw  it.  What  an  admirable  scene  of 
peace  and  plenty.     What  a  delicious  air  breathes  over  the  heath, 


228  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

blows  the  cloud-shadows  across  it,  and  murmurs  through  the  full- 
clad  trees  !  Can  the  world  show  a  land  fairer,  richer,  more  clieer- 
ful  ?  I  see  a  portion  of  it  when  I  look  up  from  the  window  at 
which  I  write.  But  fair  scene,  green  woods,  bright  terraces  gleam- 
ing in  sunshine,  and  purple  clouds  swollen  with  summer  rain — nay, 
the  very  pages  over  wliich  my  head  bends — disappear  from  before 
my  eyes.  They  are  looking  backwards,  back  into  forty  years  off, 
into  a  dark  room,  into  a  little  house  hard  by  on  the  Common  here, 
in  the  Bartlemytide  holidays.  The  parents  have  gone  to  town  for 
two  days :  the  house  is  all  his  own,  his  own  and  a  grim  old  maid- 
servant's, and  a  little  boy  is  seated  at  night  in  the  lonely  draw- 
ing-room, poring  over  "  Manfroni,  or  the  One-handed  Monk,"  so 
frightened  that  he  scarcely  dares  to  turn  round. 


DE  JUVENTUTE 


OUR  last  paper  of  this  veracious  and  roundabout  series  related 
to  a  period  wliich  can  only  be  historical  to  a  great  number 
of  readers  of  this  Magazine.*  Four  I  saw  at  the  station 
to-day  with  orange-covered  books  in  their  hands,  who  can  but  have 
known  George  IV.  by  books,  and  statues,  and  pictures.  Elderly 
gentlemen  were  in  their  prime,  old  men  in  their  middle  age,  when 
he  reigned  over  us.  His  image  remains  on  coins ;  on  a  picture  or 
two  hanging  here  and  there  in  a  Club  or  old-fashioned  dining-room ; 
on  horseback,  as  at  Trafalgar  Square,  for  example,  where  I  defy  any 
monarch  to  look  more  uncomfortable.  He  turns  up  in  sundry 
memoirs  and  histories  which  have  been  published  of  late  days ;  in 
Mr.  Massey's  "  History " ;  in  the  "  Buckingham  and  Grenville 
Correspondence  "  ;  and  gentlemen  who  have  accused  a  certain  writer 
of  disloyalty  are  referred  to  those  volumes  to  see  whether  the  picture 
drawn  of  George  is  overcharged.  Charon  has  paddled  him  off;  he 
has  mingled  with  the  crowded  republic  of  the  dead.  His  effigy 
smiles  from  a  canvas  or  two.  Breechless  he  bestrides  his  steed  in 
Trafalgar  S([uare.  I  believe  he  still  wears  his  robes  at  Madame 
Tussaud's  (Madame  herself  having  quitted  Baker  Street  and  life, 
and  found  him  she  modelled  t'other  side  the  Stygian  stream).  On 
the  head  of  a  five-shilling  piece  we  still  occasionally  come  upon  him, 
with  Saint  George,  the  dragon-slayer,  on  the  other  side  of  the  coin. 
Ah  me  !  did  this  George  slay  many  dragons  1  Was  he  a  brave, 
heroic  champion,  and  rescuer  of  virgins  ■?  Well !  well !  have  you  and 
I  overcome  all  the  dragons  that  assail  us  1  come  alive  and  victorious 
out  of  all  the  caverns  which  we  have  entered  in  life,  and  succoured, 
at  risk  of  life  and  limb,  all  poor  distressed  persons  in  whose  naked 
limbs  the  dragon  Poverty  is  about  to  fasten  his  fangs,  whom  the 
dragon  Crime  is  poisoning  with  his  horrible  breath,  and  about  to 
crunch  up  and  devour  1  0  my  Royal  liege  !  0  my  gracious  prince 
and  warrior  !  You  a  champion  to  fight  that  monster  1  Your  feeble 
spear  ever  pierce  that  slimy  paunch  or  plated  back  ]  See  how  the 
flames  come  gurgling  out  of  liis  red-hot  brazen  throat !     What  a  roar ! 

*  The  Curnhill  Magazine. 


230  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  trails,  with  eyes  flaming  like  the  lamps  of  a 
railroad  engine.  How  he  squeals,  rushing  out  through  the  darkness 
of  his  tunnel !  Now  he  is  near.  Now  he  is  here.  And  now — 
wliat  1 — lance,  shield,  kniglit,  feathers,  horse  and  all  1  0  horror, 
horror  !  Next  day,  round  the  monster's  cave,  there  lie  a  ie\y  bones 
more.  You,  who  wish  to  keep  yours  in  your  skins,  be  thankful 
that  you  are  not  called  upon  to  go  out  and  fight  dragons.  Be 
grateful  that  they  don't  sally  out  and  swallow  you.  Keep  a  wise 
distance  from  their  caves,  lest  you  pay  too  dearly  for  approaching 
them.  Remember  that  years  passed,  and  whole  districts  were 
ravaged,  before  the  warrior  came  who  was  able  to  cope  with  the 
devouring  monster.  When  that  knight  does  make  his  appearance, 
with  all  my  heart  let  us  go  out  and  welcome  him  with  our  best 
songs,  huzzas,  and  laurel  wreaths,  and  eagerly  recognise  his  valour 
and  victory.  But  he  comes  only  seldom.  Countless  knights  were 
slain  before  Saint  George  won  the  battle.  In  the  battle  of  life  are 
we  all  going  to  try  for  the  honours  of  championship  1  If  wc  can  do 
our  duty,  if  we  can  keep  our  i)lace  pretty  honourably  through  the 
combat,  let  us  say,  Laus  Deo  !  at  the  end  of  it,  as  the  firing  ceases, 
and  the  night  falls  over  the  field. 

The  old  were  nnddle-aged,  the  elderly  were  in  their  prime,  then, 
thirty  years  since,  when  yon  Royal  George  was  still  fighting  the 
dragon.  As  for  you,  my  pretty  lass,  with  your  saucy  hat  and 
golden  tresses  tumbled  in  your  net,  and  you,  my  spruce  young 
gentleman  in  your  mandarin's  cap  (the  young  folks  at  the  country- 
place  where  I  am  staying  are  so  attired),  your  parents  were  unknown 
to  each  other,  and  wore  short  frocks  and  short  jackets,  at  the  date 
of  this  five-shilling  piece.  Only  to-day  I  met  a  dog-cart  crammed 
witli  children — ^children  with  moustaches  and  mandarin  caps — chil- 
dren with  saucy  hats  and  hair-nets — children  in  short  frocks  and 
knickerbockers  (surely  the  prettiest  boy's  dress  that  has  appeared 
these  hundred  years)  — children  from  twenty  years  of  age  to  six ; 
and  father,  with  mother  by  his  side,  driving  in  front — and  on 
father's  countenance  I  saw  that  very  laugh  which  I  remember  per- 
fectly in  the  time  when  this  crown-piece  was  coined — in  his  time, 
in  King  George's  time,  wlien  we  were  schoolboys  seated  on  the  same 
form.  The  smile  was  just  as  broad,  as  briglit,  as  jolly,  as  I  remem- 
ber it  in  the  past — unforgotten,  though  not  seen  or  thought  of,  for 
how  many  decades  of  years,  and  quite  and  instantly  familiar,  though 
so  long  out  of  sight. 

Any  contemporary  of  that  coin  who  takes  it  up  and  reads  the 
inscription  round  the  laurelled  head,  "  Georgius  IV.  Britanniarum 
Rex  Fid.  Def.  1823,"  if  he  will  but  look  steadily  enough  at  the 
round,  and  utter  the   proper  incantation,   I   daresay  may  conjure 


DE    JUVENTUTE  231 

back  his  life  there.  Look  well,  my  elderly  friend,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see.  First,  I  see  a  Sultan,  with  hair,  beautiful  hair,  and  a 
crown  of  laurels  round  his  head,  and  his  name  is  Georgius  Rex  Fid. 
Def.,  and  so  on.  Now  the  Sultan  has  disappeared ;  and  what  ia 
that  I  see  ?  A  boy, — a  boy  in  a  jacket.  He  is  at  a  desk  ;  he  has 
great  books  before  him,  Latin  and  Greek  books  and  dictionaries. 
Yes,  but  behind  the  great  books,  which  he  pretends  to  read,  is  a 
little  one,  with  pictures,  which  he  is  really  reading.  It  is — yes,  I 
can  read  now — it  is  the  "Heart  of  Midlothian,"  by  the  author  of 
"  Waverley  " — or,  no,  it  is  "  Life  in  London,  or  tlic  Adventures  of 
Corinthian  Tom,  Jeremiah  Hawthorn,  and  their  friend  Bob  Logic," 
by  Pierce  Egan  ;  and  it  has  pictures— oh!  such  funny  pictures! 
As  he  reads,  there  comes  behind  the  boy,  a  man,  a  dervish,  in  a 
black  gown,  like  a  woman,  and  a  black  square  cap,  and  he  has  a 
book  in  each  hand,  and  he  seizes  the  boy  who  is  reading  the  picture- 
book,  and  lays  his  head  upon  one  of  his  books,  and  smacks  it  with 
the  other.     The  boy  makes  faces,  and  so  that  picture  disappears. 

Now  the  boy  has  grown  bigger.  He  has  got  on  a  black  gown 
and  cap,  something  like  the  dervish's.  He  is  at  a  table,  with  ever 
so  many  bottles  on  it,  and  fruit,  and  tobacco ;  and  other  young 
dervishes  come  in.  They  seem  as  if  tliey  were  singing.  To  them 
enters  an  old  moollah,  he  takes  down  their  names,  and  orders  them 
all  to  go  to  bed.  What  is  this?  a  carriage,  with  four  beautiful 
horses  all  galloping — a  man  in  red  is  blowing  a  trumpet.  Many 
young  men  are  on  the  carriage — one  of  them  is  driving  the  horses. 
Surely  they  won't  drive  into  that Ah  !  they  have  all  dis- 
appeared. And  now  I  see  one  of  the  young  men  alone.  He  ia 
walking  in  a  street — a  dark  street ;  presently  a  light  comes  to  a 
window.  There  is  the  shadow  of  a  lady  who  passes.  He  stands 
there  till  the  light  goes  out.  Now  he  is  in  a  room  scribbling  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  kissing  a  miniature  every  now  and  then.  They 
seem  to  be  lines  each  pretty  much  of  a  lengtli.  I  can  read  heart, 
smart,  dart  ;  Mary,  fairy  ;  Cujnd,  stupid ;  true,  you  ;  and  never 
mind  what  more.  Bah  !  it  is  bosh.  Now  see,  he  lias  got  a  gown 
on  again,  and  a  wig  of  white  hair  on  his  head,  and  he  is  sitting  with 
other  dervishes  in  a  great  room  full  of  them,  and  on  a  throne  in  the 
middle  is  an  old  Sultan  in  scarlet,  sitting  before  a  desk,  ^nd  he 
wears  a  wig  too — and  the  young  man  gets  up  and  speaks  to  him. 
And  now  what  is  here  ?  He  is  in  a  room  with  ever  so  many 
children,  and  the  miniature  hanging  up.  Can  it  be  a  likeness  of 
that  woman  who  is  sitting  before  that  copper  urn,  with  a  silver 
vase  in  her  hand,  from  Avhich  she  is  pouring  hot  liquor  into  cups  ] 
Was  she  ever  a  fairy  1  She  is  as  fat  as  a  liippopotamus  now.  He 
is  sitting  on  a  divan  by  tlie  fire.     He  has  a  paper  on  his  knees. 


232  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Read  the  name  of  the  paper.  It  is  the  Superfine  Review.  It 
inclines  to  think  that  Mr.  Dickens  is  not  a  true  gentleman,  that  Mr. 
Thackeray  is  not  a  true  gentleman,  and  tliat  when  the  one  is  pert  and 
the  other  is  arch,  we,  the  gentlemen  of  the  Superfine  Revieiv,  think, 
and  think  rightly,  that  we  liave  some  cause  to  be  indignant.  The  great 
cause  why  modern  humour  and  modern  sentimentalism  repel  us,  is  that 
they  are  unwarrantably  familiar.  Now,  Mr.  Sterne,  the  Superfine 
Reviewer  thinks,  "  was  a  true  sentimentalist,  because  he  was  above 
all  things  a  true  gentleman."  The  flattering  inference  is  obvious  :  let 
us  be  thankful  for  having  an  elegant  moralist  watching  over  us,  and 
learn,  if  not  too  old,  to  imitate  his  high-bred  politeness  and  catch 
his  unobtrusive  grace.  If  we  are  unwarrantably  familiar,  we  know 
who  is  not.  If  we  repel  by  pertness,  we  know  who  never  does. 
If  our  language  offends,  we  know  whose  is  always  modest.  0  pity  ! 
The  vision  has  disappeared  off  the  silver,  the  images  of  youth  and 
the  past  are  vanisliing  away  !  We  who  have  lived  before  railways 
were  made,  belong  to  another  world.  In  how  many  hours  could 
the  Prince  of  Wales  drive  from  Brighton  to  London,  with  a  light 
carriage  built  expressly,  and  relays  of  horses  longing  to  gallop  the 
next  stage?  Do  you  remember  Sir  Somebody,  the  coachman  of  the 
Age,  who  took  our  lialf-crown  so  affably  1  It  was  only  yesterday  ; 
but  what  a  gulf  between  now  and  tlien  !  Then  was  the  old  world. 
Stage-coaches,  more  or  less  swift,  riding-horses,  pack-horses,  highway- 
men, knights  in  armour,  Norman  invadei's,  Roman  legions,  Druids, 
Ancient  Britons  painted  blue,  and  so  forth — all  these  belong  to  the 
old  period.  I  will  concede  a  halt  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  allow  that 
gunpowder  and  printing  tended  to  modernise  the  world.  But  your 
railroad  starts  the  new  era,  and  we  of  a  certain  age  belong  to  the 
new  time  and  the  old  one.  We  are  of  the  time  of  chivalry  as  well 
as  the  Bla(!k  Prince  of  Sir  Walter  Manny.  We  are  of  the  age  of 
steam.  We  have  stepped  out  of  the  old  world  on  to  "  Brunei's  " 
vast  deck,  and  across  the  waters  ingens  p)atet  tellus.  Towards 
what  new  continent  are  we  wending  ?  to  what  new  laws,  new 
manners,  new  politics,  vast  new  expanses  of  liberties  unknown  as 
yet,  or  only  surmised  ?  I  used  to  know  a  man  who  had  invented 
a  flying-machine,  i'  Sir,"  lie  would  say,  "  give  me  but  five  hundred 
pounds,  and  I  will  make  it.  It  is  so  simple  of  construction  that  I 
tremble  daily  lest  some  other  person  should  light  upon  and  patent 
my  discovery."  Perliaps  fiiith  was  wanting  ;  perhaps  the  five  hundred 
pounds.  He  is  dead,  and  somebody  else  must  make  the  flying- 
machine.  But  that  will  only  be  a  step  forward  on  the  journey 
already  begun  since  we  quitted  the  old  world.  There  it  lies  on  the 
other  side  of  yonder  embankments.  You  young  folk  have  never  seen 
it ;  and  Waterloo  is  to  you  no  more  than  Agincourt,  and  George  IV. 


DE    JUVENTUTE  233 

than  Sardanapalns.  We  elderly  people  have  lived  in  that  prjE- 
railroad  worlcl,  -which  has  passed  into  limbo  and  vanished  from 
under  us.  I  tell  y(ni  it  was  firm  under  our  feet  once,  and  not  long 
ago.  They  have  raised  those  railroad  embankments  up,  and  shut 
off  the  old  world  that  was  behind  them.  Climb  up  that  bank  on 
which  the  irons  are  laid,  and  look  to  the  other  side — it  is  gone. 
There  is  no  other  side.  Try  and  catch  yesterday.  Where  is  it  1 
Here  is  a  Times  newspaper,  dated  Monday  26tli,  and  this  is  Tuesday 
27th.     Suppose  you  deny  there  was  such  a  day  as  yesterday  ! 

We  who  lived  before  railways,  and  survive  out  of  the  ancient 
world,  are  like  Father  Noah  and  his  family  out  of  the  Ark.  The 
children  will  gather  round  and  say  to  us  patriarchs,  "  Tell  us, 
grandpapa,  about  tlie  old  world."  And  we  shall  mumble  our  old 
stories  ;  and  we  shall  drop  off  one  by  one  ;  and  there  will  be  fewer 
and  fewer  of  us,  and  these  very  old  and  feeble.  There  will  he  but 
ten  prse-railroadites  left :  then  three — then  two — then  one — then 
0  !  If  the  hippopotamus  liad  the  least  sensibility  (of  wjiich  I 
cannot  trace  any  signs  either  in  his  hide  or  his  face),  I  think  he 
would  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  his  tank,  and  never  come  up  again. 
Does  he  not  see  that  he  belongs  to  bygone  ages,  and  that  his  great 
hulkhig  barrel  of  a  body  is  out  of  place  in  these  times'?  What  has 
he  in  common  with  tlie  brisk  young  life  surrounding  him  1  In  the 
watches  of  the  night,  when  the  keepers  are  asleep,  when  the  birds 
are  on  one  leg,  Avhen  even  the  little  armadillo  is  quiet,  and  the 
monkeys  have  ceased  their  chatter,— he,  I  mean  the  hippopotamus, 
and  the  elephant,  and  the  long-necked  giraffe,  perhaps  may  lay  their 
heads  together  and  have  a  colloquy  about  the  great  silent  ante- 
diluvian world  which  they  remember,  where  mighty  monsters  floun- 
dered tlirough  the  ooze,  crocodiles  basked  on  the  banks,  and  dragons 
darted  out  of  the  caves  and  waters  before  men  were  made  to  slay 
them.  We  who  lived  before  railways  are  antediluvians — we  must 
pass  away.  We  are  growing  scarcer  every  day  ;  and  old — old — very 
old  relicts  of  the  times  when  George  was  still  fighting  the  Dragon. 

Not  long  since,  a  company  of  horse-riders  paid  a  visit  to  our 
watering-i)lace.  We  went  to  see  them,  and  I  bethought  me  that 
young  Walter  Juvenis,  who  was  in  the  place,  might  like  also  to 
witness  the  performance.  A  pantomime  is  not  always  amusing 
to  persons  who  have  attained  a  certain  age ;  but  a  boy  at  a 
pantomime  is  always  amused  and  amusing,  and  to  see  his  yileasure 
is  good  for  most  hypochondriacs. 

We  sent  to  AValter's  mother,  requesting  that  he  might  join 
us,  and  the  kind  lady  replied  that  the  boy  had  already  been  at 
the  morning  performance  of  the  equestrians,  but  was  most  eager  to 
^0  in  the  evening  likewise.     And  go  he  did,  and  laughed  at  all  Mr. 


234  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Merryman's  remarks,  though  he  remembered  them  with  remarkable 
accuracy,  and  insisted  upon  waiting  to  the  very  end  of  the  fun,  and 
was  only  induced  to  retire  just  before  its  conclusion  by  representa- 
tions tliat  the  ladies  of  the  party  would  be  incommoded  if  they  were 
to  wait  and  undergo  the  rush  and  trample  of  the  crowd  round  about. 
Wlien  tliis  fact  was  pointed  out  to  liim,  he  yielded  at  once,  though 
with  a  heavy  heart,  his  eyes  looking  longingly  towards  the  ring  as 
we  retreated  out  of  the  booth.  We  were  scarcely  clear  of  the  place, 
when  we  heard  "God  Save  the  Queen,"  played  by  the  equestrian 
band,  the  signal  that  all  was  over.  Our  companion  entertained  us 
with  scraps  of  the  dialogue  on  our  way  home — precious  crumbs  of 
Avit  which  he  had  brought  away  from  that  feast.  He  laughed  over 
them  again  as  we  walked  imder  the  stars.  He  has  them  now,  and 
takes  them  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  memory,  and  crunches  a  bit, 
and  relishes  it  with  a  sentimental  tenderness,  too,  for  he  is,  no 
doubt,  back  at  school  by  this  time ;  the  holidays  are  over ;  and 
Doctor  Birch's  young  friends  have  reassembled. 

Queer  jokes,  which  caused  a  thousand  simple  mouths  to  grin  ! 
As  the  jaded  Merryman  uttered  them  to  the  old  gentleman  with 
the  whip,  some  of  the  old  folks  in  the  audience,  I  daresay,  indulged 
in  reflections  of  their  own.  There  was  one  joke — I  utterly  forget 
it— but  it  began  with  Merryman  saying  what  he  had  for  dinner. 
He  had  mutton  for  dinner,  at  one  o'clock,  after  which  "  he  had  to 
come  to  business."  And  then  came  the  point.  Walter  Juvenis, 
Esquire,  Reverend  Doctor  Birch's,  Market  Rodborough,  if  you  read 
this,  will  you  please  send  me  a  line,  and  let  me  know  what  was 
the  joke  Mr.  Merryman  made  about  having  his  dinner?  You 
remember  well  enough.  But  do  I  want  to  know  1  Suppose  a  boy 
takes  a  favourite  long-cherished  lump  of  cake  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
offers  you  a  bite  1  Merci  !  The  fact  is,  I  don't  care  much  about 
knowing  that  joke  of  Mr.  Merryman's. 

But  whilst  he  was  talking  about  his  dinner,  and  his  mutton, 
and  his  landlord,  and  his  business,  I  felt  a  great  interest  about 
Mr.  M.  in  private  life — about  his  wife,  lodgings,  earnings,  and 
general  history,  and  I  daresay  was  forming  a  picture  of  those  in 
my  mind  :— -wife  cooking  the  mutton ;  children  waiting  for  it ; 
Merryman  in  his  plain  clothes,  and  so  forth ;  during  which  con- 
templation the  joke  was  uttered  and  laughed  at,  and  Mr.  M.,  re- 
suming his  professional  duties,  was  tumbling  over  head  and  heels. 
Do  not  sxippose  I  am  going,  sicut  est  mos,  to  indulge  in  moralities 
about  buffoons,  paint,  motley,  and  mountebanking.  Nay,  Prime 
Ministers  rehearse  their  jokes ;  Opposition  leaders  prepare  and 
polish  them ;  Tabernacle  preachers  must  arrange  them  in  their 
minds  before  they  utter  them.     All  I  mean  is,  that  I  would  like 


DE    JUVENTUTE  235 

to  know  any  one  of  these  performers  thoroughly,  and  out  of  his 
uniform  :  that  preacher,  and  why  in  his  travels  this  and  that  point 
struck  him  ;  wherein  lies  his  power  of  pathos,  humour,  eloquence  ; 
— that  Minister  of  State,  and  what  moves  him,  and  how  his  private 
heart  is  working ; — I  would  only  say  that,  at  a  certain  time  of 
life,  certain  things  cease  to  interest :  but  about  some  tilings  when 
we  cease  to  care,  what  will  be  the  use  of  life,  sight,  hearing  ] 
Poems  ai'e  written,  and  we  cease  to  admire.  Lady  Jones  invites 
us,  and  we  yawn ;  she  ceases  to  invite  us,  and  we  are  resigned. 
The  last  time  I  saw  a  ballet  at  the  opera — oh  !  it  is  many  years 
ago — I  fell  asleep  in  the  stalls,  wagging  my  head  in  insane  dreams, 
and  I  hope  affording  amusement  to  tlie  company,  while  the  feet  of 
five  hundred  nymphs  were  cutting  flicflacs  on  the  stage  at  a  few 
paces'  distance.  Ah,  I  remember  a  different  state  of  things ! 
Credite  j^osteri.  To  see  those  nymphs  — gracious  powers,  how 
beautiful  they  were  !  That  leering,  i)ainted,  shrivelled,  thin-armed, 
thick-ankled  old  tiling  cutting  dreary  capers,  coming  thunijnng 
down  on  her  board  out  of  time — that  an  opera-dancer  1  Pooh  ! 
My  dear  Walter,  the  great  difference  between  my  time  and  yours, 
who  will  enter  life  some  two  or  three  years  hence,  is  that,  now, 
the  dancing  women  and  singing  women  are  ludicrously  old,  out  of 
time,  and  out  of  tune ;  the  paint  is  so  visible,  and  the  dinge  and 
wrinkles  of  their  wretched  old  cotton  stockings,  that  I  am  surprised 
how  anybody  can  like  to  look  at  them.  And  as  for  laughing  at  vie 
for  falling  asleep,  I  can't  understand  a  man  of  sense  doing  otherwise. 
In  my  time,  a  la  bonne  hexire.  In  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  I  give 
you  my  honour,  all  the  dancers  at  the  ojiera  were  as  beautiful  as 
Houris.  Even  in  William  IV. 's  time,  when  I  think  of  Duvernay 
prancing  in  as  the  Bayadere, — I  say  it  was  a  vision  of  loveliness 
such  as  mortal  eyes  can't  see  nowadays.  How  well  I  remember 
the  tune  to  which  she  used  to  appear !  Kalcd  used  to  say  to  the 
Sultan,  "  My  lord,  a  troop  of  those  dancing  and  singing  gurls  called 
Bayadtircs  approaches,"  and,  to  the  clash  of  cymbals,  and  the 
thumping  of  my  heart,  in  she  used  to  dance  !  There  has  never 
been  anything  like  it — never.  There  never  will  be — I  laugh  to 
scorn  old  people  who  tell  me  about  your  Noblet,  your  Montessu, 
your  Vestris,  your  Parisot — pshaw,  the  senile  twaddlers  !  And 
the  impudence  of  the  young  men,  with  their  music  and  their  dancers 
of  to-day  !  I  tell  you  the  women  are  dreary  old  creatures.  I 
tell  you  one  air  in  an  opera  is  just  like  another,  and  they  send  all 
rational  creatures  to  sleep.  Ah,  Ronzi  de  Begnis,  thou  lovely  one  ! 
Ah,  Caradori,  thou  smiling  angel !  Ah,  Malibran  !  Nay,  I  will 
come  to  modern  times,  and  acknowledge  that  Lablache  was  a  very 
good  singer  thirty  years  ago  (though  Porto  was  the  boy  for  me) : 


236  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

and  then  we  had  Ainbrogetti,  and  Curioni,  and  Donzelli,  a  rising 
young  singer. 

But  what  is  most  certain  and  lamentable  is  the  decay  of  stage 
beauty  since  the  days  of  George  IV.  Think  of  Sontag !  I  re- 
member her  in  Otello  and  the  Donna  del  Lago  in  '28.  I  remem- 
ber being  behind  the  scenes  at  the  opera  (where  numbers  of  us 
young  fellows  of  fashion  used  to  go),  and  seeing  Sontag  let  her  hair 
fall  down  over  her  shoulders  previous  to  her  murder  by  Donzelli. 
Young  fellows  have  never  seen  beauty  like  that,  heard  such  a  voice, 
seen  sucli  hair,  such  eyes.  Don't  tell  me  !  A  man  wlio  has  been 
about  town  since  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  ought  he  not  to  know 
better  than  you  young  lads  who  have  seen  nothing?  The  deteriora- 
tion of  women  is  lamentable ;  and  the  conceit  of  the  young  fellows 
more  lamentable  still,  that  they  won't  see  this  fact,  but  persist  in 
thinking  their  time  as  good  as  ours. 

Bless  me  !  when  I  was  a  lad,  the  stage  was  covered  with  angels, 
who  sang,  acted,  and  danced.  When  I  remember  the  Adelphi,  and 
the  actresses  there  :  when  I  think  of  Miss  Chester,  and  Miss  Love, 
and  Mrs.  Serle  at  Sadler's  Wells,  and  her  forty  glorious  pupils — 
of  tlie  Opera  and  Noblet,  and  the  exquisite  young  Taglioni,  and 
Pauline  Leroux,  and  a  host  more !  One  much-admired  being  of 
those  days  I  confess  I  never  cared  for,  and  that  was  the  chief 
male  dancer — a  very  important  personage  then,  with  a  bare  neck, 
bare  arms,  a  tunic,  and  a  hat  and  feathers,  who  used  to  divide  the 
applause  with  the  ladies,  and  who  has  now  sunk  down  a  trap-door 
for  ever.  And  this  frank  admission  ought  to  show  that  I  am  not 
your  mere  twaddling  laudator  temporis  acti — your  old  fogey  who 
can  see  no  good  except  in  his  own  time. 

They  say  that  claret  is  better  nowadays,  and  cookery  much 
improved  since  the  days  of  my  monarch — of  George  IV.  Pastry 
cookery  is  certainly  not  so  good.  I  have  often  eaten  half-a-crown's 
worth  (including,  I  trust,  ginger-beer)  at  our  school  pastrycook's, 
and  that  is  a  proof  that  the  pastry  must  have  been  very  good, 
for  could  I  do  as  much  now  ?  I  passed  by  the  pastrycook's  shop 
lately,  having  occasion  to  visit  my  old  school.  It  looked  a  very 
dingy  old  baker's ;  misfortunes  may  have  come  over  him — those 
penny  tarts  ceiiainly  did  not  look  so  nice  as  I  remember  them : 
but  he  may  have  grown  careless  as  he  has  grown  old  (I  should 
judge  him  to  be  now  about  ninety-six  years  of  age),  and  his  hand 
may  liave  lost  its  cunning. 

Not  that  we  were  not  great  epicures.  I  remember  how  we 
constantly  grumbled  at  the  quantity  of  the  food  in  our  master's 
house — which  on  my  conscience  I  believe  was  excellent  and  plenti- 
ful— and  how  we  tried  once  or  twice  to  eat  him  out  of  house  and 


DE    JUVENTUTE  237 

home.  At  the  pastrycook's  we  may  have  over-eaten  ourselves  (1 
have  admitted  half-a-crown's  worth  for  my  own  part,  but  I  don't 
like  to  mention  the  7'eal  figure  for  fear  of  perverting  the  present 
generation  of  boys  by  my  monstrous  confession) — we  may  have 
eaten  too  much,  I  say.  "We  did ;  but  what  then  1  The  school 
apothecary  was  sent  for :  a  couple  of  small  globules  at  niglit,  a 
trifling  preparation  of  senna  in  the  morning,  and  we  had  not  to  go 
to  school,  so  that  the  draught  was  an  actual  pleasure. 

For  our  amusements,  besides  the  games  in  vogue,  whicli  were 
pretty  much  in  old  times  as  they  are  now  (except  cricket,  ^^a?- 
exemple — and  I  wish  the  present  youth  joy  of  their  bowling,  and 
suppose  Armstrong  and  Wliitworth  will  bowl  at  them  with  light 
field-pieces  next),  there  were  novels—  ah  !  I  trouble  you  to  find 
such  novels  in  the  present  day !  0  Scottish  Chiefs,  didn't  we  weep 
over  you  !  0  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  didn't  I  and  Briggs  Minor 
draw  pictures  out  of  yoii,  as  I  have  said]  Eff'orts,  feeble  indeed, 
but  still  giving  pleasure  to  us  and  our  friends.  "  I  say,  old  boy, 
draw  us  Vivaldi  tortured  in  the  Inquisition,"  or  "Draw  us  Don 
Quixote  and  the  windmills,  you  know,"  amateurs  would  say,  to 
boys  who  had  a  love  of  drawing.  "  Peregrine  Pickle  "  Ave  liked, 
our  fathers  admiring  it,  and  telling  us  (the  sly  old  boys)  it  was 
capital  fun  ;  but  I  think  I  was  rather  bewildered  by  it,  though 
"  Roderick  Random "  was  and  remains  delightful.  I  don't  re- 
member having  Sterne  in  the  school  library,  no  doubt  because  the 
works  of  that  divine  were  not  considered  decent  for  young  people. 
Ah  !  not  against  thy  genius,  0  father  of  Uncle  Toby  and  Trim, 
would  I  say  a  word  in  disrespect.  But  I  am  thankful  to  live  in 
times  when  men  no  longer  have  the  temptation  to  write  so  as 
to  call  blushes  on  women's  cheeks,  and  would  shame  to  wliispcr 
wicked  allusions  to  honest  boys.  Then,  above  all,  we  had  Walter 
Scott,  the  kindly,  the  generous,  the  x^^'i'e — the  companion  of  what 
countless  delightful  hours ;  the  purveyor  of  how  much  happiness ; 
the  friend  whom  we  recall  as  the  constant  benefactor  of  our  youth  ! 
How  well  I  remember  the  type  and  tlie  brownish  pai)er  of  the  old 
duodecimo  "  Tales  of  My  Landlord  !  "  I  have  never  dared  to  read 
the  "Pirate,"  and  the  "Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  or  "  Kenilworth," 
from  that  day  to  this,  because  the  finale  is  unhappy,  and  people 
die,  and  are  murdered  at  the  end.  But  "Ivanhoe,"  and  "  Quentin 
Durward  " !  Oh  for  a  half-holiday,  and  a  quiet  corner,  and  one  of 
those  books  again  !  Those  books,  and  perhaps  those  eyes  with 
which  we  read  them  ;  and,  it  may  be,  the  brains  behind  the  eyes ! 
It  may  be  the  tart  was  good  ;  but  how  fresh  the  appetite  was  ! 
If  the  gods  would  give  me  the  desire  of  my  heart,  I  should  be 
able  to  write  a  story  which  boys  would  relish  for  the  next  few 


238  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

dozen  of  centuries.  The  boy-critic  loves  the  story  :  grown  up,  he 
hives  the  autlior  wlio  wrote  the  story.  Hence  the  kindly  tie  is 
'•^.tablished  between  writer  and  reader,  and  lasts  pretty  nearly  for 
J  i.e.  I  meet  people  now  who  don't  care  for  Walter  Scott,  or  the 
'•Arabian  Nights";  I  am  sorry  for  them,  unless  they  in  their 
time  have  found  their  romancer — their  charming  Scheherazade.  By 
the  way,  Walter,  when  you  are  writing,  tell  me  who  is  the  favourite 
novelist  in  the  fourth  form  now  1  Have  you  got  anything  so  good 
and  kindly  as  dear  Miss  Edgeworth's  "  Frank  "  1  It  used  to  belong 
to  a  fellow's  sisters  generally ;  but  though  he  pretended  to  despise 
it,  and  said,  "  Oh,  stuff  for  girls ! "  he  read  it ;  and  I  think  there 
were  one  or  two  jiassages  which  would  try  my  eyes  now,  were  I 
to  meet  with  the  little  book. 

As  for  Thomas  and  Jeremiah  (it  is  only  my  witty  way  of 
calling  Tom  and  Jerry),  I  went  to  the  British  Museum  the  other 
day  on  purpose  to  get  it ;  but  somehow,  if  you  will  press  the 
question  so  closely,  on  reperusal,  Tom  and  Jerry  is  not  so  brilliant 
as  I  had  supposed  it  to  be.  The  pictures  are  just  as  fine  as  ever ; 
and  I  shook  hands  with  broad-backed  Jerry  Hawthorn  and 
Corinthian  Tom  with  delight,  after  many  years'  absence.  But 
the  style  of  the  writing,  I  own,  was  not  pleasing  to  me ;  I  even 
thought  it  a  little  vulgar — well !  well !  other  writers  have  been 
considered  vulgar — -and,  as  a  description  of  the  sports  and  amuse- 
ments of  London  in  the  ancient  times,  more  curious  than  amusing. 

But  the  pictures  !  — oh  !  the  pictures  are  noble  still !  First, 
there  is  Jerry  arriving  from  the  country,  in  a  green  coat  and  leather 
gaiters,  and  being  measured  for  a  fashionable  suit  at  Corinthian 
House,  by  Corinthian  Tom's  tailor.  Then  away  for  the  career  of 
pleasure  and  f  ishion.  The  park !  delicious  excitement !  The 
theatre  !  the  saloon  !  !  the  green-room  !  ! !  Rapturous  bliss— the 
opera  itself!  and  tlien  perhaps  to  Temple  Bar,  to  knock  down  a 
Charley  tliere  !  There  are  Jerry  and  Tom,  with  their  tights  and 
little  cocked  hats,  coming  from  the  opera — very  much  as  gentlemen 
in  waiting  on  Royalty  are  habited  now.  There  they  are  at  Almack's 
itself,  amidst  a  crowd  of  high-bred  personages,  with  tlie  Duke 
of  Clarence  himself  looking  at  them  dancing.  Now,  strange 
change,  they  are  in  Tom  Cribb's  parloiu",  where  they  don't 
seem  to  be  a  whit  less  at  home  than  in  fashion's  gilded  halls : 
and  now  they  are  at  Newgate,  seeing  the  irons  knocked  off  the 
malefactors'  legs  previous  to  execution.  What  hardened  ferocity 
in  the  countenance  of  the  desperado  in  yellow  breeches  !  What 
compunction  in  the  face  of  the  gentleman  in  black  (who,  I 
suppose,  has  been  forging),  and  who  clasps  his  hands,  and  listens 
to    the    chaplain !     Now    we    haste   away   to    merrier   scenes :  to 


DE    JUVENTUTE 


239 


Tattersall's  (ah,  gracious  powers  !  what  a  funny  fellow  that  actor 
was  who  performed  Dicky  Green  in  that  scene  at  the  play  !) ; 
and  now  we  are  at  a  private  party,  at  which  Corinthian  Tom  is 
waltzing  (and  very  gracefully,  too,  as  you  must  confess)  with  Corin- 
thian Kate,  whilst  Bob  Logic,  the  Oxonian,  is  playing  on  the  piano  ! 


*' After,"  tlie  text  says,  '■'■the  Oxonian  had  played  several  pieces 
of  lively  music,  he  requested  as  a  favour  that  Kate  and  his  triend 
Tom  would  perform  a  waltz.  Kate  without  any  hesitation  imme- 
diately stood  up.  Tom  offered  his  hand  to  his  fascinating  partner, 
and  the  dance  took  place.  The  plate  conveys  a  correct  representa- 
tion of  the  '  gay  scene '  at  that  precise  moment.  The  anxiety  of 
the  Oxonian  to  witness  the  attitudes  of  the  elegant  pair  had  nearly 


240  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

put  a  stop  to  their  movements.  On  turning  round  from  the 
pianoforte  and  jjresenting  his  comical  mug,  Kate  could  scarcely 
suppress  a  laugh." 

And  no  wonder ;  just  look  at  it  now  (as  I  have  copied  it  to  the 
best  of  my  humble  ability),  and  compare  Master  Logic's  countenance 
and  attitude  with  the  splendid  elegance  of  Tom  !  Now  every 
London  man  is  weary  and  blase.  There  is  an  enjoyment  of  life 
in  tliese  young  bucks  of  1823  which  contrasts  strangely  with  our 
feelings  of  1860.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  specimen  of  their  talk 
and  walk. 

"  '  If,'  says  Logic — '  if  enjoyment  is  your  motto,  you  may  make 
the  most  of  an  evening  at  Vauxhall,  more  than  at  any  other  place 
in  the  metropolis.  It  is  all  free  and  easy.  Stay  as  long  as  you 
like,  and  depart  when  you  think  proper.' — '  Your  description  is  so 
flattering,'  replied  Jerry,  '  that  I  do  not  care  how  soon  the  time 
arrives  for  us  to  start.'  Logic  proposed  a  '  bit  of  a  stroll '  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  an  hour  or  two,  which  was  immediately  accepted  by 
Tom  and  Jerry.  A  turn  or  two  in  Bond  Street,  a  stroll  through 
Piccadilly,  a  look  in  at  Tattersall's,  a  7'anihle  tlirough  Pall  Mall, 
and  a  strut  on  the  Corinthian  path,  fully  occupied  the  time  of  our 
heroes  until  the  hour  for  dinner  arrived,  when  a  few  glasses  of 
Tom's  rich  wines  soon  put  them  on  the  qxd  vive.  Vauxhall  was 
then  the  object  in  view,  and  the  Trio  started,  bent  upon  enjoying 
the  pleasures  which  this  place  so  amply  affords." 

How  nobly  those  inverted  commas,  those  italics,  those  capitals, 
bring  out  the  writer's  wit  and  relieve  the  eye  !  They  are  as  good 
as  jokes,  though  you  mayn't  quite  perceive  the  point.  Mark  the 
varieties  of  lounge  in  which  the  young  men  indulge — now  a  stroll, 
then  a  look  in,  then-  a  ramble,  and  presently  a  strut.  When 
George,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  twenty,  I  have  read  in  an  old 
Magazine,  "  the  Prince's  lounge  "  was  a  peculiar  manner  of  walking 
which  the  young  bucks  imitated.  At  Windsor.  George  III.  had 
a  cat's  path — a  sly  early  walk  which  the  good  old  King  took  m 
the  grey  morning  before  his  household  was  astir.  What  was  the 
Corinthian  path  here  recorded  1  Does  any  antiquary  know  1  And 
what  were  the  rich  wines  which  our  friends  took,  and  which  enabled 
them  to  enjoy  Vauxhall  1  Vauxhall  is  gone,  but  the  wines  which 
could  occasion  such  a  delightful  perversion  of  the  intellect  as  to 
enable  it  to  enjoy  ample  pleasures  there,  what  were  they  ? 

So  the  game  of  life  proceeds,  until  Jerry  Hawthorn,  the  rustic, 
is  fairly  knocked  up  by  all  this  excitement  and  is  forced  to  go  home, 
and  the  last  picture  represents  him  getting  into  the  coach  at  the 


DE    JUVENTUTE  241 

"White  Horse  Cellar,"  he  being  one  of  six  inside  ;  whilst  his  friends 
shake  him  by  the  hand  :  whilst  the  sailor  mounts  on  the  roof; 
whilst  the  Jews  hang  romid  with  oranges,  knives,  and  sealing- 
wax  ;  whilst  the  guard  is  closing  the  door.  AVhere  are  they  now, 
those  sealing-wax  vendors  1  where  are  the  guards  1  wliere  are  the 
jolly  teams'?  where  are  the  coaches?  and  where  the  youth  that 
climbed  inside  and  out  of  them ;  that  heard  the  merry  horn  whicli 
sounds  no  more  ;  that  saw  the  sun  rise  over  Stonehcnge  ;  that 
rubbed  away  the  bitter  tears  at  night  after  parting  as  the  coach 
sped  on  the  journey  to  school  and  London  :  that  looked  out  witli 
beating  heart  as  the  milestones  flew  by,  for  the  welcome  corner 
where  began  home  and  holidays  1 

It  is  night  now  :  and  here  is  home.  Gathered  under  the  quiet 
roof  elders  and  children  lie  alike  at  rest.  In  tlie  midst  of  a  great 
peace  and  calm,  the  stars  look  out  from  the  heavens.  The  silence 
is  peopled  with  the  past ;  sorrowful  remorses  for  sins  and  shoit- 
comings — memories  of  passionate  joys  and  griefs  rise  out  of  their 
gi'aves,  both  now  alike  calm  and  sad.  Eyes,  as  I  shut  mine,  look 
at  me,  that  have  long  ceased  to  shine.  The  town  and  the  fair  land- 
scape sleep  under  the  starlight,  wreathed  in  the  autumn  mists. 
Twinkling  among  the  houses  a  light  keeps  watch  here  and  there,  in 
wliat  may  be  a  sick  chamber  or  two.  Tlie  clock  tolls  sweetly  in 
the  silent  air.  Here  is  night  and  rest.  An  awful  sense  of  thanks 
makes  the  heart  swell,  and  the  head  bow,  as  I  pass  to  my  room 
through  the  sleeping  house,  and  feel  as  tliough  a  luished  blessing 
were  upon  it. 


M' 


NOTES  OF  A    WEEK'S  HOLIDAY 


OST  of  us  tell  old  stories  in  our  families.  The  wife  and 
children  laugh  for  the  hundredth  time  at  the  joke.  The 
old  servants  (though  old  servants  are  fewer  every  day)  nod 
and  smile  a  recognition  at  the  well-known  anecdote.  "  Don't  tell 
that  story  of  Grouse  in  the  gun-room,"  says  Diggory  to  Mr.  Hard- 
castle  in  the  play,  "or  I  must  laugh."  As  we  twaddle,  and  grow 
old  and  forgetful,  we  may  tell  an  old  story ;  or,  out  of  mere  bene- 
volence, and  a  wish  to  amuse  a  friend  when  conversation  is  flagging, 
disinter  a  Joe  Miller  now  and  then ;  but  the  practice  is  not  quite 
honest,  and  entails  a  certain  necessity  of  hypocrisy  on  story  hearers 
and  tellers.  It  is  a  sad  thing,  to  think  that  a  man  with  what  you 
call  a  fund  of  anecdote  is  a  humbug,  more  or  less  amiable  and 
pleasant.  What  right  have  I  to  tell  my  "  Grouse  in  the  gun-room  " 
over  and  over  in  the  presence  of  my  wife,  mother,  mother-in-law, 
sons,  daughters,  old  footman  or  parlour-maid,  confidential  clerk, 
curate,  or  what  not  %  I  smirk  and  go  through  the  history,  giving 
my  admirable  imitations  of  the  characters  introduced :  I  mimic 
Jones's  grin,  Hobbs's  squint,  Brown's  stammer,  Grady's  brogue, 
Sandy's  Scotch  accent,  to  the  best  of  my  power :  and  the  family 
part  of  my  audience  laughs  good-humouredly.  Perhaps  the  stranger, 
for  whose  amusement  the  performance  is  given,  is  amused  by  it, 
and  laughs  too.  But  this  practice  continued  is  not  moral.  This 
self-indulgence  on  your  part,  my  dear  Paterfamilias,  is  weak,  vain — ■ 
not  to  say  culpable.  I  can  imagine  many  a  worthy  man,  who 
begins  unguardedly  to  read  this  page,  and  comes  to  the  present 
sentence,  lying  back  in  his  chair,  thinking  of  that  story  wliich  he 
has  told  innocently  for  fifty  years,  and  rather  piteously  owning  to 
himself,  "  Well,  well,  it  is  wrong ;  I  have  no  right  to  call  on  my 
poor  wife  to  laugh,  my  daughters  to  affect  to  be  amused,  by  that 
old  old  jest  of  mine.  And  they  would  have  gone  on  laughing,  and 
they  would  have  pretended  to  be  amused,  to  their  dying  day,  if  this 
man  Iiad  not  flung  his  damper  over  our  hilarity."  ...  I  lay  down 
the  pen,  and  think,  "Are  there  any  old  stories  which  I  still  tell 
myself  in  the  bosom  of  my  family  ?     Have  I  any  Grouse  in  my 


NOTES    0.F    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  243 

gun-room  ? "  If  there  are  such,  it  is  because  my  memory  fails  ;  not 
because  I  want  apjjhuise,  and  wantonly  repeat  myself.  You  see 
men  with  the  so-called  fund  of  anecdote  will  not  repeat  the  same 
story  to  the  same  individual ;  but  they  do  think  that,  on  a  new 
party,  the  repetition  of  a  joke  ever  so  old  may  be  honourably  tried. 
I  meet  men  walking  the  London  streets,  bearing  the  best  reputation, 
men  of  anecdotal  powers : — I  know  such,  who  very  likely  will  reatl 
this,  and  say,  "  Hang  the  fellow,  he  means  me  !  "  And  so  I  do. 
No — no  man  ought  to  tell  an  anecdote  more  than  thrice,  let  us  say, 
unless  he  is  sure  he  is  speaking  only  to  give  pleasure  to  his  heareis 
— unless  he  feels  that  it  is  not  a  mere  desire  for  jiraise  which  makes 
him  open  his  jaws. 

And  is  it  not  with  writers  as  with  raconteurs  ?  Ought  they 
not  to  have  their  ingenuous  modesty  1  May  authors  tell  old  stories, 
and  how  many  times  over  1  When  I  come  to  look  at  a  place  whidi 
I  have  visited  any  time  these  twenty  or  thirty  years,  I  recall  not 
the  place  merely,  but  the  sensations  I  had  at  first  seeing  it,  and 
which  are  quite  different  to  my  feelings  to-day.  That  first  day  at 
Calais  :  the  voices  of  the  women  crying  out  at  night,  as  the  vessel 
came  alongside  the  pier  :  tlie  supper  at  Quillacq's  and  the  flavour 
of  tlie  cutlets  and  wine  ;  the  red-calico  canopy  under  which  I  slept ; 
the  tiled  floor,  and  the  fresh  smell  of  the  sheets ;  the  wonderlul 
postillion  in  his  jack-boots  and  pigtail ;— all  return  with  perfect 
clearness  to  my  mind,  and  I  am  seeing  them,  and  not  the  objects 
M'hich  are  actually  under  my  eyes.  Here  is  Calais.  Yonder  is  that 
commissioner  I  have  known  this  score  of  years.  Here  are  the 
women  screaming  and  bustling  over  the  baggage  ;  the  i)eople  at  the 
passport-barrier  who  take  your  papers.  My  good  peojile,  I  haidly 
see  you.  You  no  more  interest  me  than  a  dozen  orange-woiuen  in 
Covent  Garden,  or  a  shop  book-keeper  in  Oxford  Street.  But  ytiu 
make  me  think  of  a  time  when  you  were  indeed  Avondcrful  to  behold 
— when  the  little  French  soldiers  wore  white  cockades  in  their 
shakos — when  the  diligence  was  forty  hours  going  to  Paris ;  and 
the  great-booted  postillion,  as  surveyed  by  youthful  eyes  from  the 
coupe',  with  his  jiirons,  his  ends  of  rope  for  the  harness,  and  liis 
clubbed  pigtail,  was  a  wonderful  being,  and  productive  of  endless 
amusement.  You  young  folks  don't  remember  the  apple  girls  who 
used  to  follow  the  diligence  up  the  hill  beyond  Boulogne,  and  the 
delights  of  the  jolly  road  1  In  making  Continental  journeys  with 
young  folk,  an  oldster  may  be  very  quiet,  and,  to  outward  a])pear- 
ance,  melancholy  ;  but  really  he  has  gone  back  to  the  days  of  his 
youth,  and  he  is  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age  (as  the  case  may 
be),  and  is  anmsing  himself  with  all  his  might.  He  is  noting  the 
horses  as  they  come  s(juealing  out  of  the  post-house  yard  at  mid- 


244  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

night ;  he  is  enjoying  the  delicious  meals  at  Beauvais  and  Amiens, 
and  quaffing  ad  libitum  the  rich  table-d'hOte  wine  ;  he  is  hail-fellow 
with  tlie  conductor,  and  alive  to  all  the  incidents  of  the  road.  A 
man  can  be  alive  in  1860  and  1830  at  the  same  time,  don't  you 
see?  Bodily,  I  may  be  in  1860,  inert,  silent,  torpid;  but  in  the 
spirit  I  am  walking  about  in  1828,  let  us  say; — in  a  blue  dress- 
coat  and  brass  buttons,  a  sweet  figured  silk  waistcoat  (which  I 
button  round  a  slim  waist  with  perfect  ease),  looking  at  beautiful 
beings  with  gigot  sleeves  and  tea-tray  hats  under  the  golden  chest- 
nuts of  the  Tuileries,  or  round  the  Place  Vendome,  where  the 
drapeau  hlanc  is  floating  from  the  statueless  column.  Shall  we  go 
and  dine  at  "  Bombarda's,"  near  the  "  Hotel  Breteuil,"  or  at  the 
"Cafe  Virginie"?  —  Away!  "Bombarda's"  and  the  "Hotel 
Breteuil"  have  been  pulled  down  ever  so  long.  They  knocked 
down  the  poor  old  Virginian  Coffee-house  last  year.  My  spirit  goes 
and  dines  there.  My  body,  perhaps,  is  seated  with  ever  so  many 
people  in  a  railway-carriage,  and  no  wonder  my  companions  find  me 
dull  and  silent.  Have  you  read  Mr.  Dale  Owen's  "  Footfalls  on 
the  Boundary  of  Another  World'"? — (My  dear  sir,  it  will  make 
your  hair  stand  quite  refreshingly  on  end.)  In  that  work  you  will 
read  that  when  gentlemen's  or  ladies'  spirits  travel  off  a  few  score 
or  thousand  miles  to  visit  a  friend,  their  bodies  lie  quiet  and  in  a 
torpid  state  in  their  beds  or  in  their  arm-chairs  at  home.  So  in 
this  way  I  am  absent.  My  soul  whisks  away  thirty  years  back 
into  the  past.  I  am  looking  out  anxiously  for  a  beard.  I  am 
getting  past  the  age  of  loving  Byron's  poems,  and  pretend  that  I 
like  Wordsworth  and  Shelley  much  better.  Nothing  I  eat  or  drink 
(in  reason)  disagrees  with  me ;  and  I  know  whom  I  think  to  be  the 
most  lovely  creature  in  the  world.  Ah,  dear  maid  (of  that  remote 
but  well-remembered  period),  are  you  a  wife  or  widow  now  1 — are 
you  dead  ? — are  you  thin  and  withered  and  old  1 — or  are  you  grown 
much  stouter,  with  a  false  front  ? — and  so  forth. 

0  Eliza,  Eliza  !— Stay,  ims  she  Eliza  ?  Well,  I  protest  I  have 
forgotten  what  your  Christian  name  was.  You  know  I  only  met 
you  for  two  daj^s,  but  your  sweet  face  is  before  me  now,  and  the 
roses  blooming  on  it  are  as  fresh  as  in  that  time  of  May.     Ah,  dear 

Miss  X ,  my  timid  youtli  and  ingenuous  modesty  would  never 

have  allowed  me,  even  in  my  private  thoughts,  to  address  you  other- 
wise than  by  your  paternal  name,  but  that  (though  I  conceal  it) 
I  remember  perfectly  well,  and  that  your  dear  and  respected  father 
was  a  brewer. 

Carillon. — I  was  awakened  this  morning  with  the  chime 
which  Antwerp  cathedral  clock  plays  at  half-hours.     The  tune  has 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  245 

been  haunting  me  ever  since,  as  tunes  will.  You  dress,  eat,  drink, 
walk,  and  talk  to  yourself  to  their  tune  :  their  inaudible  jingle 
accompanies  you  all  day  :  you  read  the  sentences  of  the  paper  to 
their  rhythm.  I  tried  uncouthly  to  imitate  the  tune  to  the  ladies 
of  the  family  at  breakfast,  and  they  say  it  is  the  Shadow  Dance  of 
"  Dinorah."  It  may  be  so.  I  dimly  remember  that  my  body  was 
once  present  during  the  performance  of  that  opera,  whilst  my  eyes 
were  closed,  and  my  intellectual  faculties  dormant  at  the  back  of 
the  box ;  howbeit,  I  have  learned  that  sliadow  dance  from  hearing 
it  pealing  up  ever  so  high  in  the  air,  at  night,  morn,  noon. 

How  pleasant  to  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  clieery  peal  ! 
whilst  the  old  city  is  asleep  at  midnight,  or  waking  up  rosy  at 
sunrise,  or  basking  in  noon,  or  swept  by  the  scudding  rain  which 
drives  in  gusts  over  the  broad  places,  and  the  great  shining  river ; 
or  sparkling  in  snow  which  dresses  up  a  hundred  thousand  masts, 
peaks,  and  towers  ;  or  wrapt  round  with  thunder-cloud  canopies, 
before  wliich  the  white  gables  shine  whiter;  day  and  night  the  kind 
little  carillon  plays  its  fantastic  melodies  overhead.  The  bells  go  on 
ringing.  Quot  vivos  vocant,  mortuos  2'>l(tn(junt,  fulgura  fvdngunt  ; 
so  on  to  the  past  and  future  tenses,  and  for  how  many  nights,  days, 
and  years  !  Whilst  the  French  were  pitching  their  fnlgura  into 
Chassd's  citadel,  the  bells  went  on  ringing  quite  cheerfully.  Whilst 
the  scaffolds  were  up  and  guarded  by  Alva's  soldiery,  and  regiments 
of  penitents,  blue,  black,  and  grey,  poured  out  of  churches  and 
convents,  droning  their  dirges,  and  marching  to  the  place  of  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  where  heretics  and  rebels  were  to  meet  their  doom, 
the  bells  up  yonder  were  chanting  at  their  appointed  half-hours  and 
quarters,  and  rang  the  mauvais  quart  d'heure  for  many  a  poor  soul. 
This  bell  can  see  as  far  away  as  the  towers  and  dykes  of  Rotterdam. 
That  one  can  call  a  greeting  to  St.  Ursula's  at  Brussels,  and  toss  a 
recognition  to  tliat  one  at  the  town-hall  of  Oudenarde,  and  remember 
how  after  a  great  struggle  there  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  the 
whole  plain  was  covered  with  the  flying  French  cavalry — Burgundy, 
and  Berri,  and  the  Chevalier  of  St.  George  flying  like  the  rest. 
"  What  is  your  clamour  about  Oudenarde  1 "  says  another  bell  (Bob 
Major  this  one  must  be).  "  Be  still,  thou  querulous  old  clajjper  ! 
/  can  see  over  to  Hougoumont  and  Saint  John.  And  about  forty- 
five  years  since,  I  rang  all  through  one  Sunday  in  June,  when  there 
was  such  a  battle  going  on  in  the  cornfields  there,  as  none  of  you 
others  ever  heard  tolled  of  Yes,  from  morning  service  until  after 
vespers,  the  French  and  English  were  all  at  it,  ding-dong."  And 
then  calls  of  business  intervening,  the  bells  have  to  give  u]>  their 
private  jingle,  resume  their  professional  duty,  and  sing  tlieir  hourly 
chorus  out  of  "Dinorah." 


240  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

What  a  prodigious  distance  those  bells  can  be  heard  !  I  was 
awakenerl  this  morning  to  their  tune,  I  say.  I  have  been  hearing 
it  constantly  ever  since.  And  this  house  whence  I  write,  Murray 
says,  is  two  hundred  and  ten  niiles  from  Antwerp.  And  it  is 
a  week  off;  and  there  is  the  bell  still  jangling  its  Shadow 
Dance  out  of  "Dinorah."  An  audible  sliadow,  you  understand, 
and  an  invisible  sound,  but  quite  distinct;  and  a  plague  take 
the  tune  ! 

Under  the  Bells. — Who  has  not  seen  the  church  under  the 
bells  1  Those  lofty  aisles,  those  twilight  chapels,  that  cumbersome 
pulpit  with  its  huge  carvings,  tliat  wide  grey  pavement  flecked  witii 
various  light  from  tlie  jewelled  windows,  those  famous  pictures 
between  the  voluminous  columns  over  the  altars,  which  twinkle 
with  their  ornaments,  their  votive  little  silver  hearts,  legs,  limbs, 
their  little  guttering  tapers,  cups  of  sham  roses,  and  what  not  1  I 
saw  two  regiments  of  little  scholars  creei)ing  in  and  forming  square, 
each  in  its  appointed  place,  under  the  vast  roof;  and  teachers 
presently  coming  to  them  A  stream  of  light  from  the  jewelled 
windows  beams  slanting  down  upon  each  little  squad  of  children, 
and  the  tall  background  of  the  church  retires  into  a  greyer  gloom. 
Pattering  little  feet  of  laggards  arriving  echo  through  the  great 
nave.  They  trot  in  and  join  their  regiment,  gathered  under  the 
slanting  sunbeams.  What  are  they  learning'?  Is  it  truth?  Those 
two  grey  ladies  with  their  books  in  their  hands  in  the  midst  of  these 
little  people  have  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  every  word  they  have 
printed  under  their  eyes.  Look,  through  th*^  windows  jewelled  all 
over  with  saints  tlie  liglit  comes  streaming  down  from  the  sky,  and 
Heaven's  own  illuminations  paint  the  book !  A  sweet  touching 
picture  indeed  it  is,  that  of  the  little  children  assembled  in  this 
immense  temple,  which  has  endured  for  ages,  and  grave  teachers 
bending  over  them,  Yes,  the  picture  is  very  pretty  of  the  children 
and  their  teachers,  and  their  book — but  the  text  1  Is  it  the  truth, 
the  only  truth,  nothing  but  the  truth  1  If  I  thought  so,  I  would 
go  anil  sit  down  on  the  form  mm  parvulis,  and  learn  the  precious 
lesson  with  all  my  heart. 

Beadle. — But  I  submit,  an  obstacle  to  conversions  is  the 
intrusion  and  impertinence  of  that  Swiss  fellow  with  the  baldric — • 
t'le  officer  who  answers  to  the  beadle  of  the  British  Islands,  and 
i ;  pacing  about  the  church  with  an  eye  on  the  congregation.  Now 
''i>  boast  of  Catholics  is  that  tneir  churches  are  open  to  all;  but 
i  I  certain  places  and  churches  there  are  exceptions.  At  Rome  I 
h  ive  been  into  Saint  Peter's  at  all  hours  :  the  doors  are  always  open, 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  247 

the  lamps  are  always  burning,  the  faithful  are  for  ever  kneeling  at 
one  shrine  or  the  other.  But  at  Antwerp  not  so.  In  the  after- 
noon you  can  go  to  the  church,  and  be  civilly  treated ;  but  you 
must  pay  a  franc  at  the  side  gate.  In  the  forenoon  the  doors  are 
open,  to  be  sure,  and  there  is  no  one  to  levy  an  entrance  fee.  I 
was  standing  ever  so  still,  looking  through  the  great  gates  of  the 
choir  at  the  twinkling  lights,  and  listening  to  the  distant  chants 
of  the  priests  performing  the  service,  when  a  sweet  chorus  from  the 
organ-loft  broke  out  behind  me  overhead,  and  I  turned  round.  My 
friend  the  drum-major  ecclesiastic  was  down  upon  me  in  a  moment. 
"  Do  not  turn  your  back  to  the  altar  during  divine  service,"  says 
he,  in  very  intelligible  Englisli.  I  take  the  rebuke,  and  turn  a  soft 
right-about  face,  and  listen  awhile  as  the  service  continues.  See  it 
I  cannot,  nor  the  altar  and  its  nnnistrants.  We  are  sejjarated  from 
these  by  a  great  screen  and  closed  gates  of  iron,  through  which  tlie 
lamps  glitter  and  the  chant  comes  by  gusts  only.  Seeing  a  score 
of  children  trotting  down  a  side  aisle,  I  think  I  may  follow  them. 
I  am  tired  of  looking  at  that  hideous  old  pulpit  with  its  grotestpie 
monsters  and  decorations.  I  slip  off  to  the  side  aisle ;  but  my 
friend  the  drum-major  is  instantly  after  me — almost  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  lay  hands  on  me.  "  You  mustn't  go  there,"  says  he  ; 
"you  mustn't  disturb  the  service."  I  was  moving  as  quietly  as 
might  be,  arid  ten  paces  off  there  were  twenty  children  kicking  and 
clattering  at  their  ease.     I  point  them  out  to  the  Swiss.      "  They 

come   to   pray,"  says   he.      "  }  ow  don't  come   to   pray,  you " 

"  When  I  come  to  pay,"  says  I,  "  I  am  welcome,"  and  with  this 
withering  sarcasm,  I  walk  out  of  clnurh  in  a  huff.  I  don't  envy 
the  feelings  of  that  beadle  after  receiving  point  blank  such  a  stroke 
of  wit. 

Leo  Belgicus. — Perhaps  you  will  say  after  tliis  I  am  a 
prejudiced  critic.  I  see  the  pictures  in  the  cathedral  fuming  under 
the  rudeness  of  that  beadle,  or,  at  the  lawful  hours  and  jirices, 
pestered  by  a  swarm  of  shaliby  touters,  who  come  behind  me 
chattering  in  bad  English,  and  who  would  have  me  see  the  sights 
through  their  mean  greedy  eyes.  Better  see  Rubens  anywhere 
than  in  a  church.  At  the  Academy,  for  example,  where  you  may 
study  him  at  your  leisure.  But  at  church?  I  would  as  soon 
ask  Alexandre  Dumas  for  a  sermon.  Eitiier  would  paint  you 
a  martyrdom  very  fiercely  and  j)icturesquely — writhing  muscles, 
flaming  coals,  scowling  captains  and  executioners,  swarming  groups, 
and  light,  shade,  colour,  most  dexterously  brilliant  or  dark;  but 
in  Rubens  I  am  admiring  the  performer  rather  than  the  j»iece. 
With  what  astonishing  rapidity  he  travels  over  his  canvas;  how 


248  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

tellingly  the  cool  lights  and  warm  shadows  are  made  to  contrast 
and  relieve  each  other ;  how  that  blazing  blowsy  penitent  in  yellow 
satin  and  glittering  hair  carries  down  the  stream  of  light  across 
the  pi(!ture  !  This  is  the  way  to  work,  my  boys,  and  earn  a 
hundred  florins  a  day.  See  !  I  am  as  sure  of  my  line  as  a  skater 
of  making  his  figure  of  eight !  and  down  with  a  sweep  goes  a 
brawny  arm  or  a  flowing  curl  of  drapery.  The  figures  arrange 
themselves  as  if  by  magic.  The  paint-pots  are  exhausted  in 
furnishing  brown  shadows.  The  pupils  look  wondering  on,  as  the 
master  careers  over  the  canvas.  Isabel  or  Helena,  wife  No.  1  or 
No.  2,  are  sitting  by,  buxom,  exuberant,  ready  to  be  painted ;  and 
the  children  are  boxing  in  the  corner,  waiting  till  they  are  wanted 
to  figure  as  cherubs  in  the  picture.  Grave  burghers  and  gentlefolks 
come  in  on  a  visit.  There  are  oysters  and  Rhenish  always  ready 
on  yonder  table.  Was  there  ever  such  a  painter?  He  has  been 
an  ambassador,  an  actual  Excellency,  and  what  better  man  could 
be  chosen  1  He  speaks  all  the  languages.  He  earns  a  hundred 
florins  a  day.  Prodigious !  Thirty-six  thousand  five  hundred 
florins  a  year.  Enormous  !  He  rides  out  to  his  castle  with  a  score 
of  gentlemen  after  him,  like  the  Governor.  That  is  his  own 
portrait  as  Saint  George.  You  know  he  is  an  English  knight? 
Those  are  his  two  wives  as  the  two  Maries.  He  chooses  the 
handsomest  wives.  He  rides  the  handsomest  horses.  He  paints 
the  handsomest  pictures.  He  gets  the  handsomest  prices  for  them. 
That  slim  young  Van  Dyck,  who  was  his  pupil,  has  genius  too, 
and  is  painting  all  the  noble  ladies  in  England,  and  turning  the 
heads  of  some  of  them.  And  Jordaens — -what  a  droll  dog  and 
clever  fellow  !  Have  you  seen  his  fat  Silenus  ?  The  master  him- 
self could  not  paint  better.  And  his  altar-piece  at  Saint  Bavon's? 
He  can  paint  you  anything,  that  Jordaens  can — a  drunken  jollifica- 
tion of  boors  and  doxies,  or  a  martyr  howling  with  half  his  skin  off". 
What  a  knowledge  of  anatomy !  But  there  is  nothing  like  the 
master — nothing.  He  can  paint  you  his  thirty-six  thousand  five 
hundred  florins'  worth  a  year.  Have  you  heard  of  what  he  has 
done  for  the  French  Court  1  Prodigious  !  I  can't  look  at  Rubens's 
pictures  without  fancying  I  see  that  handsome  figure  swaggering 
before  the  canvas.  And  Hans  Hemmelinck  at  Bruges?  Have 
you  never  seen  that  dear  old  hospital  of  Saint  John,  on  passing 
the  gate  of  which  you  enter  into  the  fifteenth  century  ?  I  see  the 
wounded  soldier  still  lingering  in  the  house,  and  tended  by  the 
kind  grey  sisters.  His  little  panel  on  its  easel  is  placed  in  the 
light.  He  covers  his  board  with  the  most  wondrous  beautiful  little 
figures,  in  robes  as  bright  as  rubies  and  amethysts.  I  think  he 
must  have  a  magic  dass,  in  which  he  catches  the  reflection  of  little 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  249 

cherubs  with  many-coloured  wings,  very  little  and  bright.  Angels, 
in  long  crisp  robes  of  white,  surrounded  with  haloes  of  gold,  come 
and  flutter  across  the  mirror,  and  he  draws  them.  He  hears  mass 
every  day.  He  fasts  through  Lent.  No  monk  is  more  austere 
and  holy  than  Hans.  Which  do  you  love  best  to  behold,  the  lamb 
or  the  lion  1  tlie  eagle  rushing  through  the  storm,  and  pouncing 
mayhap  on  carrion ;  or  the  linnet  warbling  on  the  spray  f 

By  much  the  most  delightful  of  the  Christopher  set  of  Rubens 
to  my  mind  (and  ego  is  introduced  on  these  occasions,  so  that  the 
opinion  may  pass  only  for  my  own,  at  the  reader's  humble  service 
to  be  received  or  declined)  is  the  "  Presentation  in  the  Temple  " ; 
splendid  in  colour,  in  sentiment  sweet  and  tender,  finely  conveying 
the  story.  To  be  sure,  all  the  others  tell  their  tale  unmistakably, 
witness  that  coarse  "  Salutation,"  that  magnificent  "Adoration  of 
the  Kings  "  (at  the  Museum),  by  the  same  strong  downright  hands  ; 
that  wonderful  "  Comnumion  of  Saint  Francis,"  which,  I  think, 
gives  the  key  to  the  artist's /a/rg  better  than  any  of  his  perform- 
ances. I  have  passe^l  hours  before  tiiat  picture  in  my  time,  trying 
and  sometimes  fancying  I  could  understand  by  what  masses  and 
contrasts  the  artist  arrived  at  his  effect.  In  many  others  of  the 
pictures  parts  of  his  method  are  painfully  obvious,  and  you  see  how 
grief  and  agony  are  produced  by  blue  lips,  and  eyes  rolling  bloodshot 
with  dabs  of  veriiulion.  There  is  something  simple  in  the  practice. 
Contort  the  eyebrow  sufiiciently,  and  place  the  eyeball  near  it, — by  a 
few  lines  you  have  anger  or  fierceness  depicted.  Give  me  a  mouth 
with  no  special  expression,  and  pop  a  dab  of  carnnne  at  each 
extremity — and  there  are  the  lips  smiling.  This  is  art  if  you  will, 
but  a  very  naive  kind  of  art :  and  now  you  know  the  trick,  don't 
you  see  how  easy  it  is  ? 

Tu  QuoQUE. — Now  you  know  the  trick,  suppose  you  take  a 
canvas  and  see  whether  you  can  do  it  ?  There  are  brushes,  palettes, 
and  gallipots  full  of  paint  and  varnish.  Have  you  tried,  my  dear 
sir — you,  who  set  up  to  be  a  connoisseur  1  Have  you  tried?  I 
have— and  many  a  day.  And  the  end  of  the  day's  labour  I  0 
dismal  conclusion  !  Is  this  puerile  niggling,  this  feeble  s<',rawl,  this 
impotent  rubbish,  all  you  can  produce — you,  who  but  now  found 
Rubens  commonplace  and  vulgar,  and  were  }K)inting  out  the  tricks 
of  his  mystery]  Pardon,  0  great  chief,  magnificent  master  and 
poet !  You  can  do.  We  critics,  who  sneer  and  are  wise,  can  but 
pry,  and  measure,  and  doubt,  and  carp.  Look  at  the  lion.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  gross,  sliaggy,  mangy,  roaring  brute  1  Look  at 
him  eating  lumps  of  raw  meat — positively  blee^ling,  and  raw,  and 
tough — till,   faugli !    it   turns  one's    stomach    to   see  him— O    the 


550  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

coarse  wretch  !  Yes,  but  lie  is  a  lion.  Rubens  lias  lifted  liis  great 
hand,  and  the  mark  he  has  made  has  endured  for  two  centuries,  and 
we  still  continue  wondering  at  him,  and  admiring  him.  What  a 
strength  in  that  arm  !  What  splendour  of  will  hidden  behind  that 
tawny  beard,  and  those  honest  eyes  !  Sharpen  your  pen,  my  good 
critic.  Shoot  a  feather  into  him ;  hit  him,  and  make  him  wince. 
Yes,  you  may  hit  him  foir,  and  make  him  bleed,  too ;  but,  for  all 
that,  he  is  a  lion — a  mighty,  conquering,  generous,  rampagious  Leo 
Belgicus — monarch  of  his  wood.  And  he  is  not  dead  yet,  and  I 
will  not  kick  at  him. 

Sir  Antony. — In  that  "  Pietk  "  of  Van  Dyck,  in  the  Museum, 
have  you  ever  looked  at  the  yellow-robed  angel,  with  the  black 
scarf  thrown  over  her  wings  and  robe  1  What  a  charming  figure 
of  grief  and  beauty  !  What  a  pretty  compassion  it  inspires  !  It 
soothes  and  pleases  me  like  a  sweet  rhythmic  chant.  See  how 
delicately  the  yellow  robe  contrasts  with  the  blue  sky  behind,  and 
the  scarf  binds  the  two !  If  Rubens  lacked  grace,  Van  Dyck 
abounded  in  it.  What  a  consummate  elegance  !  AViuit  a  perfect 
cavalier !  No  wonder  the  fine  ladies  in  England  admired  Sir 
Antony.     Look  at ■ 

Here  the  clock  strikes  three,  and  the  three  gendarmes  who 
keep  the  Mus^e  cry  out,  "  Allons  !  Sortons  !  II  est  trois  heures  ! 
AUez !  Sortez ! "  and  they  skip  out  of  the  gallery  as  happy  as 
boys  running  from  school.  And  we  must  go  too,  for  though  many 
stay  behind — many  Britons  with  Murray's  Handbooks  in  their 
handsome  hands — they  have  paid  a  franc  for  entrance-fee,  you 
see ;  and  we  knew  nothing  about  the  franc  for  entrance  until 
those  gendarmes  with  sheathed  sabres  had  driven  us  out  of  this 
Paradise. 

But  it  was  good  to  go  and  drive  on  the  great  quays,  and  see 
the  ships  unlading,  and  by  the  citadel,  and  wonder  howabouts  and 
whereabouts  it  was  so  strong.  We  expect  a  citadel  to  look  like 
Gibraltar  or  Ehrenbreitstein  at  least.  But  in  this  one  there  is 
nothing  to  see  but  a  ilat  plain  and  some  ditches  and  some  trees 
and  mounds  of  uninteresting  green.  And  then  I  remember  how 
there  was  a  boy  at  school,  a  little  dumpy  fellow  of  no  personal 
appearance  whatever,  who  couldn't  be  overcome  except  by  a  much 
bigger  champion,  and  the  immensest  quantity  of  thrashing.  A 
perfect  citadel  of  a  boy,  with  a  General  Chass^  sitting  in  that 
bomb-proof  casemate,  his  heart,  letting  blow  after  blow  come 
thumping  about  his  head,  and  never  thinking  of  giving  in. 

And  we  go  home,  and  we  dine  in  the  company  of  Britons, 
at  the   comfortable   Hotel  dii  Pare,  and  we  have  bought  a  novel 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  251 

apiece  for  a  sliilling,  and  every  half-hour  the  sweet  carillon 
plays  the  waltz  from  "  Dinorah  "  in  the  air.  And  we  have  been 
happy ;  and  it  seems  about  a  month  since  Ave  left  London  yester- 
day ;  and  nobody  knows  where  we  are,  and  we  defy  care  and  the 
postman. 

Spooeweg. — Vast  green  flats,  speckled  by  spotted  cows,  and 
bounded  by  a  grey  frontier  of  windmills  ;  sliining  canals  stretching 
through  the  green  ;  odours  like  those  exhaled  from  the  Thames  in 
the  dog-days,  and  a  fine  jiervading  smell  of  cheese ;  little  trim 
houses,  with  tall  roofs,  and  great  windows  of  many  panes ;  gazebos, 
or  summer-houses,  hanging  over  pea-green  canals ;  kind-looking 
dumpling-faced  farmers'  women,  with  laced  caps,  and  golden 
frontlets  and  earrings ;  about  the  houses  and  towns  wdiich  we 
pass  a  great  air  of  comfort  and  neatness  ;  a  queer  feeling  of  wonder 
that  you  can't  understand  w'hat  your  fellow-passengers  are  saying, 
the  tone  of  whose  voices,  and  a  certain  comfortable  dowdiness  of 
dress,  are  so  like  our  own ; — whilst  we  are  remarking  on  these 
sights,  sounds,  smells,  the  little  railway  journey  from  Rotterdam 
to  the  Hague  comes  to  an  end.  I  speak  to  the  railway  porters 
and  hackney  coachmen  in  English,  and  they  reply  in  their  own 
language,  and  it  seems  somehow  as  if  we  understood  each  other 
])erfectly.  The  carriage  drives  to  the  handsome,  comfortalile, 
cheerful  hotel.  We  sit  down  a  score  at  the  table ;  and  there  is 
one  foreigner  and  his  wife,— I  mean  every  other  man  and  woman 
at  dinner  are  English.  As  we  are  close  to  the  sea  and  in  the 
midst  of  endless  canals,  we  have  no  fish.  We  are  reminded  of  dear 
England  by  tlie  noble  prices  which  Ave  pay  for  wines.  I  confess  I 
lost  my  temper  yesterday  at  Eotterdau),  Avhere  I  had  to  pay  a 
florin  for  a  bottle  of  ale  (the  water  not  being  drinkable,  and  country 
or  Bavarian  beer  not  being  genteel  enough  for  the  hotel); — I  confess, 
I  say,  that  my  fine  temper  was  ruffled,  Avhen  the  bottle  of  pale  ale 
turned  out  to  be  a  i)int  bottle ;  and  I  meekly  told  tlie  Avaiter  that 
I  had  bought  beer  at  Jerusalem  at  a  less  price.  But  then  Eotterdam 
is  eighteen  hours  from  London,  and  the  steamer  Avith  the  jjassengers 
and  beer  comes  up  to  the  hotel  windows  ;  Avhilst  to  Jerusalem  they 
have  to  carry  the  ale  on  camels'  backs  from  Beyrout  or  Jaffii,  and 
through  hordes  of  marauding  Arabs,  Avho  evidently  don't  care  for 
pale  ale,  though  I  am  told  it  is  not  forbidden  in  the  Koran.  Mine 
AV'ould  have  been  very  good,  but  I  choked  Avith  rage  Avhilst  drinking 
it.  A  florin  for  a  bottle,  and  that  bottle  having  the  words  "  imperial 
pint,"  in  bold  relief,  on  the  surface  !  It  Avas  too  much.  I  intended 
not  to  say  anything  about  it ;  but  I  must  speak.  A  florin  a  bottle, 
and  that  bottle  a  i)int !     Oh,  for  shame  !  for  shame  !     I  can't  cork 


252  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

down  my  indignation ;  I  froth  up  with  fury ;  I  am  pale  with  wrath, 
and  bitter  with  scorn. 

As  we  drove  through  the  old  city  at  night,  how  it  swarmed  and 
hummed  with  life  !  What  a  special  clatter,  crowd,  and  outcry 
there  was  in  tlie  Jewish  quarter,  where  myriads  of  young  ones 
were  trotting  about  the  fishy  street !  Why  don't  they  have  lamps '? 
We  passed  by  canals  seeming  so  full  that  a  pailful  of  water  more 
would  overflow  the  place.  The  laquais-de-place  calls  out  tiie  names 
of  the  buildings  :  the  town-hall,  the  cathedral,  the  arsenal,  the 
synagogue,  the  statue  of  Erasmus.  Get  along  !  We  know  the 
statue  of  Erasmus  well  enough.  We  pass  over  drawbridges  by 
canals  where  thousands  of  barges  are  at  roost.  At  roost — at  rest ! 
Shall  we  have  rest  in  those  bedrooms,  those  ancient  lofty  bedrooms, 
in  that  inn  where  we  have  to  jtay  a  florin  for  a  pint  of  pa — psha  ! 
at  the  "  New  Bath  Hotel  "  on  the  Bcximpjes  1  If  this  dreary  edifice 
is  the  "New  Bath,"  what  must  the  Old  Bath  be  like?  As  I  feared 
to  go  to  bed,  I  sat  in  the  coffee-room  as  long  as  I  might ;  but  tliree 
young  men  were  imparting  their  jirivate  adventures  to  each  other 
with  such  freedom  and  liveliness  that  I  felt  I  ought  not  to  listen 
to  their  artless  prattle.  As  I  put  the  light  out,  and  felt  the  bed- 
clothes and  darkness  overwhelm  me,  it  was  with  an  awful  sense 
of  terror — that  sort  of  sensation  which  I  should  think  going  down 
in  a  diving-bell  would  give.  Suppose  the  apparatus  goes  wrong, 
and  they  don't  understand  your  signal  to  mount  1  Suppose  your 
matches  miss  fire  when  you  wake ;  when  you  want  them,  when  you 
will  have  to  rise  in  half-an-hour,  and  do  battle  with  the  horrid 
enemy  who  crawls  on  you  in  the  darkness  1  I  protest  I  never  was 
more  surprised  than  when  I  woke  and  belield  the  light  of  dawn. 
Indian  birds  and  strange  trees  were  visible  on  the  ancient  gilt 
hangings  of  the  lofty  chamber,  and  through  the  windows  the 
Boompjes  and  tlie  ships  along  the  quay.  We  have  all  read  of 
deserters  being  brought  out,  and  made  to  kneel,  with  their  eyes 
bandaged,  and  hearing  the  word  to  "  Fire "  given  !  I  declare  I 
miderwent  all  the  terrors  of  execution  that  night,  and  wonder 
how  I  ever  escaped  unwounded. 

But  if  ever  I  go  to  the  "  Bath  Hotel,"  Rotterdam,  again,  I 
am  a  Dutchman.  A  guilder  for  a  bottle  of  pale  ale,  and  that 
Iwttle  a  pint !     Ah  !  for  shame — for  shame  ! 

Mine  Ease  in  Mine  Inn. — Do  you  object  to  talk  about 
inns?  It  always  seems  to  me  to  be  very  good  talk.  Walter 
Scott  is  full  of"  inns.  In  "Don  Quixote"  and  "Gil  Bias"  there 
is  plenty  of  inn-talk.  Sterne,  Fielding,  and  Smollett  constantly 
speak  about  them ;  and,  in  their  travels,  the  last  two  tot  up  the 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  253 

bill,  and' describe  the  dinner  quite  honestly;  wliilst  Mr.  Sterne 
becomes  sentimental  over  a  cab,  and  weeps  generous  tears  over 
a  donkey. 

How  I  admire  and  wonder  at  the  information  in  Murray's 
Handbooks — wonder  how  it  is  got,  and  admire  the  travellers  who 
get  it.  For  instance,  you  read  :  Amiens  (please  select  your  towns), 
60,000  inhabitants.  Hotels,  &c. — "  Lion  dOr,"  good  and  clean. 
"  Le  Lion  d'Argent,"  so  so.  "  Le  Lion  Noir,"  bad,  dirty,  and  dear. 
Now,  say,  there  are  three  travellers — three  inn-inspectors,  who  are 
sent  forth  by  Mr.  Murray  on  a  great  commission,  and  who  stop  at 
every  inn  in  the  world.  The  eldest  goes  to  the  "  Lion  d'Or  " — 
capital  house,  good  table-d'hote,  excellent  wine,  moderate  charges. 
The  second  commissioner  tries  the  "  Silver  Lion  " — tolerable  house, 
bed,  dinner,  bill,  and  so  forth.  But  fancy  Commissioner  No.  3 — the 
poor  fag,  doubtless,  and  boots  of  the  party.  He  has  to  go  to  the 
"  Lion  Noir."  He  knows  he  is  to  have  a  bad  dinner — he  eats  it 
uncomplainingly.  He  is  to  have  bad  Avine.  He  swallows  it, 
grinding  his  wretched  teeth,  and  aware  that  he  will  be  unwell  in 
consequence.  He  knows  he  is  to  have  a  dirty  bed,  and  what  he 
is  to  expect  there.  He  pops  out  the  candle.  He  sinks  into  those 
dingy  sheets.  He  delivers  over  his  body  to  the  nightly  tormentors, 
lie  pays  an  exorbitant  bill,  and  he  writes  down,  "  Lion  Noir,  bad, 
dirty,  dear."  Next  day  the  commission  sets  out  for  Arras,  we 
will  say,  and  they  begin  again  :  "  Le  Cochon  d'Or,"  "  Le  Cochon 
d'Argent,"  "  Le  Cochon  Noir" — and  that  is  poor  Boots's  inn,  of 
course.  What  a  life  that  poor  man  must  lead  !  What  horrors 
of  dinners  he  has  to  go  through  !  What  a  hide  he  must  have  ! 
And  yet  not  imi)ervious ;  for  unless  he  is  bitten,  how  is  he  to  be 
able  to  warn  others  ?  No ;  on  second  thoughts,  you  will  perceive 
that  he  ought  to  have  a  very  delicate  skin.  The  monsters  ought 
to  troop  to  him  eagerly,  and  bite  him  instantaneously  and  freely, 
so  that  he  may  be  able  to  warn  all  future  handbook-buyers  of  their 
danger,  I  fancy  this  man  devoting  himself  to  dangei-,  to  diit,  to 
bad  dinners,  to  sour  wine,  to  damp  beds,  to  midnight  agonies,  to 
extortionate  bills.  I  admire  him,  I  thank  him.  Think  of  this 
champion,  who  devotes  his  body  for  us — this  dauntless  gladiator 
going  to  do  battle  alone  in  the  darkness,  with  no  other  armour 
than  a  light  helmet  of  cottoii,  and  a  lorica  of  calico.  I  j)ity 
and  honour  him.  Go,  Spartacus  !  Go,  devoted  man — to  bleed,  to 
groan,  to  suffer — and  smile  in  silence  as  the  wild  beasts  assail 
thee! 

How  did  I  come  into  this  talk  ?  I  ])rotest  it  was  the  word  inn 
set  me  off — and  here  is  one,  the  "  Hotel  de  Belle  Vue,"  at  the 
Hague,  as  conifortable,  as  handsome,  as  cheerful  as  any  I  ever  took 


254  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

mine  ease  in.  And  the  Bavarian  beer,  my  dear  friend,  how  good 
and  brisk  and  light  it  is !  Take  another  glass — it  refreshes  and 
does  not  stupefy — and  then  we  will  sally  out,  and  see  the  town 
and  the  park  and  the  pictures. 

The  prettiest  little  brick  city,  the  pleasantest  little  park  to 
ride  in,  the  neatest  comfortable  people  walking  about,  the  canals 
not  unsweet,  and  busy  and  picturesque  with  old-world  life.  Rows 
upon  rows  of  houses,  built  with  the  neatest  little  bricks,  with 
windows  fresh  painted,  and  tall  doors  polished  and  carved  to  a 
nicety.  What  a  pleasant  spacious  garden  our  inn  has,  all  sparkling 
with  autumn  llovv'ei's,  and  bedizened  with  statues  !  At  tlie  end  is 
a  row  of  trees,  and  a  summer-house,  over  the  canal,  where  you  miglit 
go  and  smoke  a  pipe  with  Mynheer  Van  Dunck,  and  quite  cheerfully 
catch  the  ague.  Yesterday,  as  we  passed,  they  were  making  hay, 
and  stacking  it  in  a  barge  which  was  lying  by  the  meadow,  handy. 
Round  about  Kensington  Palace  there  are  houses,  roofs,  chimneys, 
and  bricks  like  these.  I  feel  that  a  Dutchman  is  a  man  and  a 
brother.  It  is  very  funny  to  read  the  newspaper,  one  can  under- 
stand it  somehow.  Sure  it  is  the  neatest,  gayest  little  city — scores 
and  hundreds  of  mansions  looking  like  Cheyne  Walk,  or  the  ladies' 
schools  about  Chiswick  and  Hackney. 

Le  GpvOS  Lot. — To  a  few  lucky  men  tlie  chance  befalls  of 
reaching  ftime  at  once,  and  (if  it  is  of  any  profit  morituro)  retaining 
the  admiration  of  the  world.  Did  poor  Oliver,  when  he  was  at 
Leyden  yonder,  ever  think  that  ho  should  paint  a  little  picture 
which  should  secure  him  the  applause  and  pity  of  all"  Europe  for  a 
century  after  1  He  and  Sterne  drew  tlie  twenty  thousand  prize  of 
fame.  The  latter  had  splendid  instalments  during  his  lifetime.  The 
ladies  pressed  round  liim  ;  the  wits  admired  him  ;  the  fashion  hailed 
the  successor  of  Rabelais.  Goldsmith's  little  gem  was  hardly  so 
valued  until  later  days.  Their  works  still  form  the  wonder  and 
delight  of  the  lovers  of  English  art ;  and  the  lectures  of  the  Vicar 
and  Uncle  Toby  are  among  tlie  masterpieces  of  our  English  school. 
Here  in  the  Hague  Gallery  is  Paul  Potter's  pale  eager  face,  and  yonder 
is  the  magnificent  work  by  whicli  the  young  fellow  achieved  his 
fame.  How  did  you,  so  young,  come  to  paint  so  well  1  What  hidden 
power  lay  in  that  weakly  lad,  that  enabled  him  to  achieve  such  a 
wonderful  victory  1  Could  little  Mozart,  when  he  was  five  years 
old,  tell  you  how  he  came  to  play  those  wonderful  sonatas  ?  Potter 
was  gone  out  of  the  world  before  he  was  thirty,  but  left  this  prodigy 
(and  I  know  not  how  many  more  specimens  of  his  genius  and  skill) 
behind  him.  The  details  of  this  admirable  picture  are  as  curious  as 
the  eff"ect  is  admirable  and  complete.     The  weather  being  unsettled, 


J^ITTLE    DUTCHMEN. 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  255 

and  clouds  and  sunshine  in  the  gusty  sky,  we  saw  in  our  little  tour 
numberless  Paul  Potters — the  meadows  streaked  with  sunshine  and 
spotted  with  the  cattle,  the  city  twinkling  in  the  distance,  the 
tluinder-clouds  glooming  overhead.  Napoleon  carried  off  tlie  picture 
(x^ide  Murray)  amongst  the  sj)oils  of  his  bow  and  spear  to  decorate 
his  triumph  at  the  Louvre.  If  I  were  a  conquering  prince,  I  would 
have  this  picture  certainly,  and  the  Raphael  "  Madonna "  from 
Dresden,  and  the  Titian  "  Assumption "  from  Venice,  and  that 
matchless  Rembrandt  of  the  "  Dissection."  The  prostrate  nations 
would  howl  with  rage  as  my  gendarmes  took  off  the  pictures,  nicely 
packed,  and  addressed  to  "■  Mr.  the  Director  of  my  Imperial  Palace 
of  the  Louvre,  at  Paris.  This  side  uppermost."  The  Austrians, 
Prussians,  Saxons,  Italians,  &c.,  should  be  free  to  come  and  visit 
my  capital,  and  bleat  with  tears  before  the  pictures  torn  from  their 
native  cities.  Their  ambassadors  would  meekly  remonstrate,  and 
with  faded  grins  make  allusions  to  the  feeling  of  despair  occasioned 
by  the  absence  of  the  beloved  works  of  art !  Bah  !  I  would  offer 
them  a  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  my  box  as  I  walked  along  my  gallery, 
with  their  Excellencies  cringing  after  me.  Zenobia  was  a  fine 
woman  and  a  ciueen,  but  she  had  to  walk  in  Aurelian's  triumph. 
Tlie  ^?rocec?e  was  jj'^u  delicat  ?  En  usez-vous,  mon  cher  monsieur  1 
(The  Marquis  says  the  "Macaba"  is  delicious.)  What  a  splendour 
of  colour  there  is  in  that  cloud  !  What  a  richness,  what  a  freedom 
of  liandling,  and  what  a  marvellous  precision  !  I  trod  upon  your 
Excellency's  corn ! — a  thousand  pardons.  His  Excellency  grins 
and  declares  that  he  rather  likes  to  have  his  corns  trodden  on. 
Were  you  ever  very  angry  with  Soult^ — about  that  Murillo  which 
we  have  bought?  The  veteran  loved  that  picture  because  it 
saved  the  life  of  a  fellow-creature — the  fellow-creature  who  hid  it, 
and  whom  the  Duke  intended  to  hang  unless  the  picture  was 
forthcoming. 

We  gave  several  thousand  pounds  for  it — how  many  thousand  1 
About  its  merit  is  a  question  of  taste  which  we  will  not  here  argue. 
If  you  choose  to  place  Murillo  in  the  first  class  of  painters,  founding 
his  claim  upon  these  Virgin  altar-pieces,  I  am  your  hxmible  servant. 
Tom  Moore  painted  altar-pieces  as  well  as  Milton,  and  warbled 
Sacred  S(Migs  and  Loves  of  the  Angels  after  his  fashion.  I  wonder 
did  Watteau  ever  try  historical  subjects?  And  as  for  Greuze,  you 
know  that  his  head's  will  fetch  £1000,  £1500,  £2000— as  much 
as  a  Sevres  cabaret  of  Rose  du  Barri.  If  cost  price  is  to  be  your 
criterion  of  worth,  what  shall  we  say  to  that  little  receipt  for  ten 
pounds  for  the  copyright  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  which  used  to  hang 
in  old  Mr.  Rogers's  room  1  When  living  painters,  as  frequently 
happens  in  our  days,  see  their  pictures  sold  at  auctions  for  four  or 


256  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

five  times  the  sums  -whicli  they  originally  received,  are  they  enraged 
or  elated'?  A  hundred  years  ago  the  state  of  the  i)icture-niarket 
was  different :  that  dreary  old  Italian  stock  was  much  higher  than 
at  present  ;  Rembrandt  himself,  a  close  man,  was  known  to  be  in 
difficulties.  If  ghosts  are  fond  of  money  still,  what  a  wrath  his 
must  be  at  the  present  value  of  his  works ! 

The  Hague  Rembrandt  is  the  greatest  and  grandest  of  all 
liis  pieces  to  my  mind.  Some  of  the  heads  are  as  sweetly  and 
lightly  painted  as  Gainsborough's;  the  faces  not  ugly,  but  deli- 
cate and  high-bred ;  the  exquisite  grey  tones  are  charming  to 
mark  and  study ;  the  heads  not  plastered,  but  painted  witli 
a  free  liquid  brush  :  the  result,  one  of  the  great  victories  won  by 
this  consummate  chief,  and  left  for  the  wonder  and  delight  of 
succeeding  ages. 

The  liuniblest  volunteer  in  the  ranks  of  art,  who  has  served  a 
campaign  or  two  ever  so  ingloriously,  has  at  least  this  good  fortune 
of  understanding,  or  fancying  he  is  able  to  understand,  how  the 
battle  has  been  fought,  and  how  the  engaged  general  won  it.  This 
is  the  Rhinelander's  most  brilliant  achievement — victory — along  the 
whole  line.  The  "  Niglit-watch  "  at  Amsterdam  is  magnificent  in 
parts,  but  on  the  side  to  the  spectator's  right,  smoky  and  dim. 
The  "  Five  Masters  of  the  Drapers  "  is  wonderful  for  depth,  strength, 
brightness,  massive  power.  What  words  are  these  to  express  a 
picture  !  to  describe  a  description  !  I  once  saw  a  moon  riding  in 
the  sky  serenely,  attended  by  her  sparkling  maids  of  honour,  and 
a  little  lady  said,  with  an  air  of  great  satisfaction,  "  /  must  sketch 
it."  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  if  with  an  H.B.,  a  Bristol  board,  and  a 
bit  of  india-rubber,  you  can  sketch  the  starry  firmament  on  high, 
and  the  moon  in  her  glory,  I  make  you  my  compliment !  I  can't 
sketch  "  The  Five  Drapers  "  with  any  ink  or  pen  at  present  at 
command — but  can  look  with  all  my  eyes,  and  be  thankful  to  have 
seen  such  a  masterpiece. 

They  say  he  was  a  moody,  ill-conditioned  man,  the  old  tenant 
of  the  mill.  What  does  he  think  of  the  "  Vander  Heist "  which 
hangs  opposite  his  "  Night-watch,"  and  which  is  one  of  the  great 
])ictures  of  the  world?  It  is  not  painted  by  so  great  a  man  as 
Rembrandt ;  but  there  it  is — to  see  it  is  an  event  of  your  life. 
Having  beheld  it,  you  have  lived  in  the  year  1648,  and  celebrated 
the  Treaty  of  Miinster.  You  have  shaken  the  hands  of  the  Dutch 
Guardsmen,  eaten  from  their  platters,  drunk  th.eir  Rhenish,  heard 
their  jokes  as  tliey  wagged  ttieir  jolly  beards.  The  Amsterdam 
catalogue  discourses  thus  about  it : — a  model  catalogue  :  it  gives 
you  the  prices  paid,  the  signatures  of  the  painters,  a  succinct 
description  of  the  work. 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  257 

"This  masterpiece  represents  a  banquet  of  the  Civic  Guard, 
which  took  place  on  tlie  18th  June  1648,  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
St.  Joris  Doele,  on  the  Singel  at  Amsterdam,  to  celebrate  the  con- 
clusion of  the  Peace  at  Miinstcr.  The  thirty-five  figures  composing 
the  picture  are  all  portraits. 

'"The  Captain  Witse'  is  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
attracts  our  attention  first.  He  is  dressed  in  black  velvet,  his  breast 
covered  with  a  cuirass,  on  his  head  a  broad-brimmed  black  hat 
with  white  plumes.  He  is  comfortably  seated  on  a  chair  of  black 
oak  with  a  velvet  cushion,  and  holds  in  his  left  hand,  sujiported  on 
his  knee,  a  magnificent  drinking-horn,  surrounded  by  a  St.  George 
destroying  the  dragon,  and  ornamented  with  olive-leaves.  The 
captain's  features  express  cordiality  and  good-humour ;  he  is  gi-asp- 
ing  the  hand  of  '  Lieutenant  Van  Wavern  '  seated  near  him  in  a 
habit  of  dark  grey,  with  lace  and  buttons  of  gold,  lace-collar  and 
wrist-bands,  his  feet  crossed,  with  boots  of  yellow  leather,  with  large 
tops,  and  gold  spurs,  on  his  head  a  black  hat  and  dark-brown  plumes. 
Behind  him,  at  the  centre  of  the  picture,  is  the  standard-bearer, 
'Jacob  Bannincj,'  in  an  easy  martial  attitude,  hat  in  hand,  his 
right  hand  on  his  chair,  his  right  leg  on  his  left  knee.  He  holds 
the  flag  of  blue  silk,  in  which  the  Virgin  is  embroidered"  (such  a 
silk  !  such  a  flag !  such  a  piece  of  painting  !),  "  emblematic  of  the 
town  of  Amsterdam.  The  banner  covers  his  shoulder,  and  he  looks 
towards  the  spe(;tator  frankly  and  complacently. 

"  Tiie  man  behind  him  is  probably  one  of  the  sergeants.  His 
head  is  bare.  He  wears  a  cuirass,  and  yellow  gloves,  grey  stockings, 
and  boots  with  large  tops,  and  kneecaps  of  cloth.  He  has  a  napkin 
on  his  knees,  and  in  his  hand  a  piece  of  ham,  a  slice  of  bread, 
and  a  knife.  The  old  man  behind  is  probably  'William  the 
Drummer.'  He  has  his  hat  in  his  right  hand,  and  in  his  left  a 
gold-footed  wineglass,  filled  with  white  wine.  He  wears  a  red 
scarf,  and  a  black  satin  doublet,  with  little  slashes  of  yellow  silk. 
Behind  the  drummer,  two  matchlock-men  are  seated  at  the  end 
of  the  table.  One  in  a  large  black  habit,  a  napkin  on  his  knee,  a 
hausae-col  of  iron,  and  a  linen  scarf  and  collar.  He  is  eating  with 
his  knife.  The  other  holds  a  long  glass  of  Avhite  wine.  Four 
nmsketeers,  with  diflerent  shaped  hats,  are  behind  these,  one  hold- 
ing a  glass,  the  three  others  with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders. 
Other  guests  are  placed  between  the  personage  who  is  giving  the 
toast  and  the  standard-bearer.  One  with  his  hat  off",  and  his  hand 
uplifted,  is  talking  to  another.  The  second  is  carving  a  fowl.  A 
third  holds  a  silver  plate  ;  and  another,jJn  tlie  background,  a  silver 
flagon,  from  which  he  fills  a  cup.  Tli^\'orner  behind  the  captain 
is  filled  by  two  seated  personages,  one  of  whom  is  peeling  an  orange. 


258  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Two  others  are  standing,  armed  with  halberts,  of  whom  one  holds 
a  phimed  hat.  Behind  him  are  other  three  indiviihials,  one  of 
them  holding  a  pewter  pot,  on  which  tlie  name  '  Poock,'  the  land- 
lord of  the  '  Hotel  Doele,'  is  engraved.  At  tlie  back,  a  maid-servant 
is  coming  in  with  a  pasty,  crowned  with  a  turkey.  Most  of  the 
guests  are  listening  to  the  captain.  From  an  open  window  in  the 
distance,  the  fa9ades  of  two  houses  are  seen,  surmounted  by  stone 
figures  of  sheep." 

There,  now  you  know  all  about  it :  now  you  can  go  home  and 
paint  just  such  another.  If  you  do,  do  pray  remember  to  paint  the 
hands  of  the  figures  as  they  are  here  depicted  ;  they  are  as  wonderful 
portraits  as  the  faces.  None  of  your  slim  Van  Dyck  elegancies, 
which  have  done  duty  at  the  cuff's  of  so  many  doublets ;  but  each 
man  with  a  hand  for  himself,  as  with  a  face  for  himself.  I  blushed 
for  the  coarseness  of  one  of  the  chiefs  in  this  great  company,  that 
fellow  behind  "  William  the  Drummer,"  splendidly  attired,  sitting 
full  in  the  face  of  the  public ;  and  holding  a  pork-bone  in  his  hand. 
Suppose  the  Saturday  Review  critic  were  to  come  suddenly  on  this 
picture  %  Ah !  what  a  shock  it  would  give  that  noble  nature ! 
Why  is  that  knuckle  of  pork  not  painted  out  %  at  any  rate,  why  is 
not  a  little  fringe  of  lace  painted  round  it "?  or  a  cut  pink  paper  %  or 
couldn't  a  smelling-bottle  be  painted  in  instead,  with  a  crest  and 
a  gold  top,  or  a  cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  in  lieu  of  the  horrid 
pig,  with  a  pink  coronet  in  the  corner  ]  or  suppose  you  covered  the 
man's  hand  (which  is  very  coarse  and  strong),  and  gave  him  the 
decency  of  a  kid  glove  %  But  a  piece  of  pork  in  a  naked  hand  %  0 
nerves  and  eau-de-cologne,  hide  it,  hide  it ! 

In  spite  of  this  lamentable  coarseness,  my  noble  sergeant,  give 
me  thy  hand  as  nature  made  it !  A  gi-eat,  and  famous,  and  noble 
handiwork  I  have  seen  here.  Not  the  greatest  picture  in  the  world 
— not  a  work  of  the  highest  genius — but  a  performance  so  great, 
various,  and  admirable,  so  shrewd  of  humour,  so  wise  of  observa- 
tion, so  honest  and  complete  of  expression,  that  to  have  seen  it  has 
lieen  a  delight,  and  to  remember  it  will  be  a  jileasure  for  days  to 
come.  Well  done,  Bartholomeus  Vander  Heist  !  Brave,  meri- 
torious, victorious,  happy  Bartholomew,  to  whom  it  has  been  given 
to  produce  a  masterpiece  ! 

May  I  take  off"  my  hat  and  pay  a  respectful  compliment  to  Jan 
Steen,  Esquire  ?  He  is  a  glorious  composer.  His  humour  is  as 
frank  as  Fielding's.  Look  at  his  own  figure  sitting  in  the  window- 
sill  yonder,  and  roaring  with  laughter  !  What  a  twinkle  in  the 
eyes  !  what  a  mouth  it  is  for  a  song,  or  a  joke,  or  a  noggin  !  I 
think  the  composition  in  some  of  Jan's  pictures  amounts  to  the 


NOTES    OF    A    WEEK'S    HOLIDAY  259 

sublime,  and  look  at  them  Avith  the  same  deliglit  and  admiration 
which  I  have  felt  before  works  of  tlie  very  higN'st  style.  This 
gallery  is  admirable — and  the  city  in  which  the  galiery  is,  is 
perhaps  even  more  wonderful  and  curious  to  behold  than  the 
gallery. 

The  first  landing  at  Calais  (or,  I  suppose,  on  any  foreign  shore) 
— the  first  sight  of  an  Eastern  city — the  first  view  of  Venice — and 
this  of  Amsterdam,  are  among  the  deliglitful  shocks  which  I  have 
had  as  a  traveller.  Amsterdam  is  as  good  as  Venice,  witli  a  super- 
added humour  and  grotesqueness,  which  gives  the  sightseer  the 
most  singular  zest  and  pleasure.  A  run  through  Pekin  I  could 
hardly  fancy  to  be  more  odd,  strange,  and  yet  familiar.  This  rush, 
and  crowd,  and  prodigious  vitality ;  this  immense  swarm  of  life ; 
these  busy  waters,  crowding  barges,  swinging  drawbridges,  piled 
ancient  gables,  spacious  markets  teeming  with  people ;  that  ever 
wonderful  Jews'  quarter ;  that  dear  old  world  of  painting  and  the 
past,  yet  alive,  and  throbbing,  and  palpable — actual,  and  yet  passing 
before  you  swiftly  and  strangely  as  a  dream  !  Of  the  many  journeys 
of  this  Roundabout  life,  that  drive  through  Amsterdam  is  to  be 
specially  and  gratefully  remembered.  You  have  never  seen  the 
palace  of  Amsterdam,  my  dear  sir?  Why,  there's  a  marble  hall 
in  that  palace  that  will  frighten  you  as  nuich  as  any  hall  in 
"  Vathek,"  or  a  nightmare.  At  one  end  of  that  old,  cold,  glassy, 
glitterhig,  ghostly,  marble  hall  there  stands  a  throne,  on  which  a 
white  marble  king  ought  to  sit  with  liis  white  legs  gleaming  down 
into  the  white  marble  below,  and  his  white  eyes  looking  at  a  great 
white  marble  Atlas,  who  bears  on  his  icy  shoulders  a  blue  globe 
^s  big  as  the  full  moon.  If  he  were  not  a  genie,  and  enchanted,  and 
with  a  strength  altogether  hyperatlantean,  he  would  drop  the  moon 
with  a  shriek  on  to  the  white  marble  floor,  and  it  would  splinter 
into  perdition.  And  the  palace  would  rock,  and  heave,  and  tumble  ; 
and  the  waters  would  rise,  rise,  rise ;  and  the  gables  sink,  sink, 
sink ;  and  tlie  barges  would  rise  up  to  the  chimneys  ;  and  the 
water-souchee  fishes  would  flap  over  the  Boompjes,  where  the 
pigeons  and  storks  used  to  perch  ;  and  the  Amster,  and  the  Rotter, 
and  the  Saar,  and  the  Op,  and  all  the  dams  of  Holland  would 
burst,  and  the  Zuyder  Zee  roll  over  the  dykes ;  and  you  would 
wake  out  of  your  dream,  and  find  yourself  sitting  in  your  arm- 
chair. 

Was  it  a  dream  1  it  seems  like  one.  Have  we  been  to  Holland  1 
have  we  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight  at  Antwerp  1  Were  we 
really  away  for  a  week,  or  have  I  been  sitting  up  in  the  room 
dozing,  before  this  stale  old  desk  1  Here's  the  desk  ;  yes.  But,  if 
it  has  been  a  dream,  how  could  I  have  learned  to  hum  that  tune 


260  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

out  of  "Dinorah'"?  Ah,  is  it  that  tune,  or  myself  that  I  am 
humming  1  If  it  was  a  dream,  how  comes  this  yellow  Notice  des 
Tableaux  du  Mus^^e  d'Amsterdam  avec  Facsimile  des  Mono- 
grammes  before  me,  and  this  signature  of  the  gallant 

Yes,  indeed,  it  was  a  delightful  little  holiday ;  it  lasted  a  whole 
week.  With  the  exception  of  that  little  pint  of  amari  aliquid  at 
Rotterdam,  we  were  all  very  happy.  We  might  have  gone  on  being 
happy  for  whoever  knows  how  many  days  more  1  a  week  more,  ten 
days  more  :  who  knows  how  long  that  dear  teetotum  happiness  can 
be  made  to  spin  without  toppling  over  1 

But  one  of  the  party  had  desired  letters  to  be  sent  poste 
restante,  Amsterdam.  The  post-office  is  hard  by  that  awful  palace 
wliere  the  Atlas  is,  and  which  we  really  saw. 

There  was  only  one  letter,  you  see.  Only  one  chance  of  finding 
us.  There  it  was.  "  The  post  has  only  this  moment  come  in," 
says  the  smirking  commissioner.  And  he  hands  over  the  paper, 
thinking  he  has  done  something  clever. 

Before  the  letter  had  been  opened,  I  could  read  Come  back,  as 
clearly  as  if  it  had  been  painted  on  the  wall.  It  was  all  over. 
The  spell  was  broken.  The  sprightly  little  holiday  fairy  that  had 
frisked  and  gambolled  so  kindly  beside  us  for  eight  days  of  sunshine 
— or  rain  which  was  as  cheerful  as  sunshine — gave  a  i)arting  piteous 
look,  and  whisked  away  and  vanished.  And  yonder  scuds  the  post- 
man, and  here  is  the  old  desk. 


ON  A   JOKE  I  ONCE  HEARD  FROM  THE 
LATE  THOMAS   HOOD 


HE  good-natured  reader  who 
has  perused  some  of  these 
rambling  papers  has  long 
since  seen  (if  to  see  has  been 
worth  his  trouble)  that  tlie 
writer  belongs  to  the  old- 
fashioned  classes  of  this 
Avorld,  loves  to  remember 
very  niucli  more  tlian  to 
proi)hosy,  and  though  he 
can't  help  being  carried  on- 
ward, and  downward,  per- 
haps, on  the  hill  of  life,  the 
swift  milestones  marking 
their  forties,  fifties — how 
many  tens  or  lustres  shall 
we  say? — he  sits  under  Time, 
the  white-wigged  charioteer, 
with  his  back  to  the  horses, 
and  his  face  to  the  past,  looking  at  the  receding  landscape  and  the 
hills  fading  into  the  grey  distance.  Ah  me  !  those  grey  distant  hills 
were  green  once,  and  hetr,  anil  covered  Avith  smiling  people  !  As 
we  came  tip  the  hill  there  was  difficulty,  and  here  and  there  a  hard 
pull  to  be  sure,  but  strength,  and  spirits,  and  all  sorts  of  cheery 
incident  and  companionship  on  the  road;  there  were  the  tough 
struggles  (by  Heaven's  merciful  will)  overcome,  the  pauses,  the 
faintings,  the  weakness,  tlie  lost  way,  perhaps,  the  bitter  weather, 
the  dreadful  partings,  tlie  lonely  night,  the  passionate  grief — to- 
wards these  I  turn  my  thoughts  as  I  sit  and  think  in  my  hobby- 
coach  under  Time,  the  silver-wigged  charioteer.  The  young  folks 
in  the  same  carriage  meanwhile  are  looking  forwards.  Nothing 
escapes  their  keen  eyes — not  a  flower  at  the  side  of  a  cottage  garden, 
nor  a  bunch  of  rosy-face(l  children  at  the  gate  :  tlie  landscape  is  all 
Vol.  xxiii. 


262  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

bright,  the  air  brisk  and  jolly,  the  town  yonder  looks  beautiful, 
and  do  you  think  they  have  learned  to  be  difficult  about  the  dishes 
at  the  inn  1 

Now,  suppose  Paterfamilias  on  his  journey  with  his  wife  and 
children  in  the  sociable,  and  he  passes  an  ordinary  brick  house  on 
the  road  with  an  ordinary  little  garden  in  the  front,  we  will  say, 
and  quite  an  ordinary  knocker  to  the  door,  and  as  many  sashed 
windows  as  you  please,  quite  common  and  scpiare,  and  tiles,  windows, 
chimney-pots,  quite  like  others ;  or  suppose,  in  driving  over  such 
and  such  a  common,  he  sees  an  ordinary  tree,  and  an  ordinary 
donkey  browsing  under  it,  if  you  like — wife  and  daughter  look  at 
these  objects  without  the  slightest  particle  of  curiosity  or  interest. 
What  is  a  brass  knocker  to  tliem  but  a  lion's  head,  or  what  not "? 
and  a  thorn-tree  Avith  a  pool  beside  it,  but  a  pool  in  which  a  thorn 
and  a  jackass  are  reflected  ? 

But  you  remember  how  once  upon  a  time  your  heart  used  to 
beat,  as  you  beat  on  that  brass  knocker,  and  whose  eyes  looked 
from  the  window  above.  You  remember  how  by  that  thorn-tree 
and  pool,  where  the  geese  were  performing  a  prodigious  evening 
concert,  there  might  be  seen,  at  a  certain  hour,  somebody  in  a 
certain  cloak  and  bonnet,  who  hajjpened  to  be  coming  from  a  village 
yonder,  and  whose  image  has  flickered  in  tluvt  pool.  In  that  pool, 
near  the  thorn  1  Yes,  in  that  goose-pool,  never  mind  how  long  ago, 
when  there  were  reflected  the  images  of  the  geese — and  two  geese 
more.  Here,  at  least,  an  oldster  may  have  the  advantage  of  his 
young  fellow-travellers,  and  so  Putney  Heath  or  the  New  Road  may 
be  invested  with  a  halo  of  briglitness  invisible  to  them,  because  it 
only  beams  out  of  his  own  soul. 

I  have  been  reading  the  "  Memorials  of  Hood  "  by  his  children,* 
and  wonder  whether  the  book  will  have  the  same  interest  for  others 
and  for  younger  people,  as  for  persons  of  my  own  age  and  calling. 
Books  of  travel  to  any  country  become  interesting  to  us  who  have 
been  there.  Men  revisit  the  old  school,  thougii  hateful  to  them, 
with  ever  so  much  kindliness  and  sentimental  aftectiou.  There  was 
the  tree  under  which  the  bully  licked  you  :  here  the  ground  where 
you  had  to  fag  out  on  holidays,  and  so  forth.  In  a  word,  my  dear 
sir.  You  are  the  most  interesting  subject  to  yourself,  of  any  that 
can  occupy  your  worship's  thoughts.  I  have  no  doubt,  a  Crimean 
soldier,  reading  a  history  of  that  siege,  and  how  Jones  and  the 
gallant  99th  were  ordered  to  charge  or  what  not,  thinks,  "Ah,  yes, 
we  of  the  100th  were  placed  so  and  so,  I  perfectly  remember."  So 
with  this  memorial  of  poor  Hood,  it  may  have,  no  doubt,  a  greater 
interest  for  me  than  for  others,  for  I  was  fighting,  so  to  speak,  in  ^ 

*  Memoriali  of  Thomas  Hood.     Moxon,  1860.     2  Toja. 


:\i 


.^m^^^S^/M^ 


SIR   J-SH-A    R-N-LPS   IN    A    DOMINO.       DR.   G-LDSM-TH    IN    AN    OLD   ENGLISH   DRESS. 


A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  THOMAS  HOOD  263 

different  part  of  tlie  field,  and  engaged,  a  young  subaltern,  in  the 
Battle  of  Life,  in  which  Hood  fell,  young  still,  and  covered  with 
glory,  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs "  -was  his  Corunna,  his  heights  of 
Abraham — sickly,  weak,  wounded,  he  fell  in  the  full  blaze  and  fame 
of  that  great  victory. 

What  manner  of  man  was  the  genius  who  penned  that  famous 
song  ]  What  like  was  Wolfe,  who  climbed  and  conquered  on  those 
famous  heights  of  Abraham  1  We  all  want  to  know  details  regard- 
ing men  who  have  achieved  famous  feats,  whether  of  war,  or  wit, 
or  eloquence,  or  endurance,  or  knowledge.  His  one  or  two  happy 
and  heroic  actions  take  a  man's  name  and  memory  out  of  the  crowd 
of  names  and  memories.  Henceforth  he  stands  eminent.  We  scan 
him  :  we  want  to  know  all  about  him ;  we  walk  round  and  examine 
him,  are  curious,  perhaps,  and  think  are  we  not  as  strong  and  tall 
and  capable  as  yonder  champion ;  were  we  not  bred  as  well,  and 
could  we  not  endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he  1  Or  we  look 
up  with  all  our  eyes  of  admiration ;  will  find  no  faidt  in  our  hero  : 
declare  his  beauty  and  proportions  perfect ;  his  critics  envious  de- 
tractors, and  so  forth.  Yesterday,  before  he  performed  his  feat,  he 
was  nobody.  Who  cared  about  liis  birthplace,  his  parentage,  or  the 
colour  of  his  hair?  To-day,  by  some  single  achievement,  or  by  a 
series  of  great  actions  to  which  his  genius  accustoms  us,  he  is  famous, 
and  antiquarians  are  busy  finding  out  under  what  schoolmaster's 
ferule  he  was  educated,  where  his  grandmother  was  vaccinated,  and 
so  forth.  If  half-a-dozen  washing-bills  of  Goldsmith's  were  to  be 
found  to-morrow^,  would  they  not  inspire  a  general  interest,  and  be 
printed  in  a  hundred  papers  1  I  lighted  upon  Oliver,  not  very  long 
since,  in  an  old  Town  and  Country  Magazine,  at  the  Pantheon 
masquerade  "in  an  old  English  habit."  Straightway  my  imagina- 
tion ran  out  to  meet  him,  to  look  at  him,  to  follow  him  about.  I 
forgot  the  names  of  scores  of  fine  gentlemen  of  the  past  age  who 
w^ere  mentioned  besides.  We  want  to  see  this  man  who  has  amused 
and  charmed  us ;  who  has  been  our  friend,  and  given  us  hours  of 
pleasant  companionship  and  kindly  thought.  I  protest  when  I 
came,  in  the  midst  of  those  names  of  people  of  fashion,  and  beaux, 
and  demireps,  upon  those  names  "  Sir  J.  R-yn-lds,  in  a  domino  ; 
Mr.  Cr-d-ck  and  Dr.  G-ldsm-th,  in  two  old  English  dresses,"  I 
had,  so  to  speak,  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  What,  you  here,  my 
dear  Sir  Joshua?  Ah,  what  an  honour  and  privilege  it  is  to  see 
you  !  This  is  Mr.  Goldsmith  ?  And  very  much,  sir,  the  ruff  and 
the  slashed  doublet  become  you !  0  Doctor !  what  a  pleasure  I 
had  and  have  in  reading  the  "  Animated  Nature  "  !  How  did  you 
learn  the  secret  of  writing  the  decasyllabic  line,  and  whence  that 
sweet  wailing  note  of  tenderuess  that  accompanies  your  song '2     Was 


264  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Beau  Tibbs  a  real  man,  and  will  you  do  me  the  honour  of  allowing 
me  to  sit  at  your  table  at  supper?  Don't  you  think  you  know  how 
he  would  have  talked?  Would  you  not  have  liked  to  hear  hira 
prattle  over  the  champagne? 

Now,  Hood  is  passed  away — passed  off  the  earth  as  much  as 
Goldsmith  or  Horace.  The  times  in  which  he  lived,  and  in  which 
very  many  of  us  lived  and  were  young,  are  changing  or  changed. 
I  saw  Hood  once  as  a  young  man,  at  a  dinner  which  seems  almost 
as  ghostly  now  as  that  masquerade  at  the  Pantheon  (1772),  of 
which  we  were  speaking  anon.  It  was  at  a  dinner  of  the  Literary 
Fund,  in  that  vast  apartment  which  is  hung  round  with  the  por- 
traits of  very  large  Royal  Freemasons,  now  unsubstantial  ghosts. 
There  at  the  end  of  the  room  was  Hood.  Some  publishers,  I  think, 
were  our  companions.  I  quite  remember  his  pale  face ;  he  was 
thin  and  deaf,  and  very  silent ;  he  scarcely  opened  his  lips  during 
the  dinner,  and   he   made  one  pun.     Some  gentleman   missed  his 

snuff-box,  and  Hood  said, (the  Freemasons'  Tavern  was  kept, 

you  must  remember,  by  Mr.  Cuff  in  those  days,  not  by  its  present 
proprietors).  Well,  the  box  being  lost,  and  asked  for,  and  Cuff 
(remember  tliat  name)  being  the  name  of  the  landlord,  Hooil  opened 
his  silent  jaws  and  said  *  *  *  Shall  I  tell  you  what  he  said  ? 
It  was  not  a  very  good  pun,  which  the  great  punster  then  made. 
Choose  your  favourite  pun  out  of  "  Whims  and  Oddities,"  and 
fancy  that  was  the  joke  which  he  contributed  to  the  hilarity  of 
our  little  table. 

Where  those  asterisks  are  drawn  on  the  page,  you  must  know, 
a  pause  occurred,  during  which  I  was  engaged  with  "  Hood's  Own," 
having  been  referred  to  the  book  by  this  life  of  the  author  which 
I  have  just  been  reading.  I  am  not  going  to  dissert  on  Hood's 
humour ;  I  am  not  a  fair  judge.  Have  I  not  said  elsewhere  that 
there  are  one  or  two  wonderfully  old  gentlemen  still  alive  who 
used  to  give  me  tips  when  I  was  a  boy  ?  I  can't  be  a  fair  critic 
about  them.  I  always  think  of  that  sovereign,  that  rapture  of 
raspberiy-tarts,  which  made  my  young  days  happy.  Those  old 
sovereign-contributors  may  tell  stories  ever  so  old,  and  I  shall 
laugh ;  they  may  commit  murder,  and  I  shall  believe  it  was  justi- 
fiable homicide.  There  is  my  friend  Baggs,  who  goes  about  abusing 
me,  and  of  course  our  dear  mutual  friends  tell  me.  Abuse  away, 
mon  bon  !  You  were  so  kind  to  me  when  I  wanted  kindness, 
that  you  may  take  the  change  out  of  that  gold  now,  and  say 
I  am  a  cannibal  and  negro,  if  you  will.  Ha,  Baggs !  Dost 
thou  wince  as  thou  readest  this  line  ?  Does  guilty  conscience 
throbbing  at  thy  breast  tell  thee  of  whom  the  fable  is  narrated? 
Puff  out  thy  wrath,  and,  when  it  has  ceased  to  blow,  my  Baggs 


A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  THOMAS  HOOD  265 

shall  be  to  me  as  the  Baggs  of  old — the  generous,  the  gentle,  the 
friendly. 

No,  on  second  thoughts,  I  am  determined  I  will  not  repeat  that 
joke  which  I  heard  Hood  make.  He  says  he  wrote  these  jokes 
with  such  ease  that  he  sent  manuscripts  to  the  publishers  faster 
than  they  could  acknowledge  the  receipt  thereof.  I  won't  say  that 
they  were  all  good  jokes,  or  that  to  read  a  great  book  full  of  thena 
is  a  work  at  present  altogether  jocular.  Writing  to  a  friend  re- 
specting some  memoir  of  him  which  had  been  publisjied,  Hood  says, 
"You  will  judge  how  well  the  author  knows  me,  when  he  says  my 
mind  is  rather  serious  than  comic."  At  the  time  when  he  wrote 
these  words,  he  evidently  undervalued  his  own  serious  power,  and 
thought  that  in  ])unning  and  broad-grinning  lay  his  chief  strength. 
Is  not  there  something  touching  in  tliat  simplicity  and  humility 
of  faith  1  "  To  make  laugh  is  my  calling,"  says  he  ;  "  I  must  jump, 
I  must  grin,  I  must  tumble,  I  must  turn  language  head  over  heels, 
and  leap  through  grammar ; "  and  he  goes  to  his  work  lunubly  and 
courageously,  and  what  he  has  to  do  that  does  he  with  all  his 
might,  through  sickness,  through  sorrow,  through  exile,  poverty, 
fever,  depression — there  he  is,  always  ready  to  his  work,  and  with 
a  jewel  of  genius  in  his  pocket !  Why,  when  he  laid  down  his 
puns  and  pranks,  put  the  motley  off,  and  spoke  out  of  his  heart, 
all  England  and  America  listened  with  tears  and  W'onder !  Other 
men  have  delusions  of  conceit,  and  fancy  themselves  greater  than 
they  are,  and  that  the  world  slights  them.  Have  we  not  heard 
how  Liston  always  thought  he  ought  to  play  Hamlet?  Here  is  a 
man  with  a  power  to  touch  the  heart  almost  unequalled,  and  he 
passes  days  and  years  in  writing,  "  Young  Ben  he  was  a  nice  young 
man,"  and  so  forth.  To  say  truth,  I  have  been  reading  in  a  book 
of  "  Hood's  Own  "  until  I  am  perfectly  angry.  "  You  great  man, 
you  good  man,  you  true  genius  and  poet,"  I  cry  out,  as  I  turn  page 
after  page.  "  Do,  do  make  no  more  of  these  jokes,  but  be  yourself, 
and  take  your  station." 

When  Hood  was  on  his  death-bed,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who  only 
knew  of  his  illness,  not  of  his  imminent  danger,  wrote  to  him  a 
noble  and  touching  letter,  announcing  that  a  pension  was  conferred 
on  him. 

"  I  am  more  than  repaid,"  writes  Peel,  "  by  the  personal  satis- 
faction which  I  have  had  in  doing  that  for  which  you  return  me 
warm  and  characteristic  acknowledgments. 

"You  perhaps  thiidc  that  you  are  known  to  one  with  such 
multifarious  occupations  as  myself,  merely  by  general  reputation 
as  an  author ;  but  I  assure  you  that  there  can  be  little,  which  you 


266  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

have  written  and  acknowledged,  which  I  have  not  read ;  and  that 
there  are  few  who  can  appreciate  and  admire  more  than  myself  the 
good  seu33  and  good  feeling  which  have  tanght  you  to  infuse  so 
much  fun  ami  merriment  into  writings  correcting  folly  and  exposing 
absurdities,  and  yet  never  trespassing  beyond  those  limits  within 
which  wit  and  facetiousness  are  not  very  often  confined.  You  may 
write  on  with  the  consciousness  of  independence,  as  free  and  un- 
fettereil,  as  if  no  communication  had  ever  passed  between  us.  I 
am  not  conferring  a  private  obligation  upon  you,  but  am  fulfilling 
the  intentions  of  the  legislature,  wliich  has  placed  at  the  disposal 
of  the  Crown  a  certain  sum  (miserable,  indeed,  in  amount)  to  be 
applied  to  the  recognition  of  public  claims  on  the  bounty  of 
the  Crown.  If  you  will  review  the  names  of  those  whose  claims 
have  been  admitted  on  account  of  their  literary  or  scientific 
eminence,  you  will  find  an  ample  confirmation  of  the  truth  of  my 
statement. 

"One  return,  indeed,  I  shall  ask  of  you, — that  you  will  give 
me  the  opportunity  of  making  your  personal  acquaintance." 

And  Hood,  writing  to  a  friend,  enclosing  a  copy  of  Peel's  letter, 
says,  "  Sir  R.  Peel  came  from  Burleigh  on  Tuesday  night,  and 
went  down  to  Brighton  on  Saturday.  If  he  had  written  by  post, 
I  should  not  have  had  it  till  to-day.  So  he  sent  his  servant  with 
the  enclosed  on  Saturclvf  night ;  another  mark  of  considerate 
attention."  He  is  frightfully  unwell,  he  continues  :  his  wife  says 
he  looks  quite  green  ;  but  ill  as  he  is,  poor  fellow,  "  his  well  is  not 
dry.  He  has  pumped  out  a  sheet  of  Christmas  fun,  is  drawing 
some  cuts,  and  shall  write  a  sheet  more  of  his  novel." 

Oh,  sad,  marvellous  picture  of  courage,  of  honesty,  of  patient 
endarance,  of  duty  struggling  against  pain !  How  noble  Peel's 
figure  is  standing  by  that  sick  bed  !  how  generous  his  words,  how 
ilignified  and  sincere  his  compassion  !  And  the  poor  dying  man, 
with  a  heart  full  of  natural  gratitude  towards  his  noble  benefactor, 
must  turn  to  him  and  say — "  If  it  be  well  to  be  roKuembered  by  a 
Minister,  it  is  better  still  not  to  be  forgotten  by  him  in  a  '  hurly 
Burleigh  ' !  "  Can  you  laugh  1  Is  not  the  joke  horribly  pathetic 
from  the  poor  dying  lips  1  As  dying  Robin  Hood  must  fire  a  last 
shot  with  his  bow — as  one  reads  of  Catholics  on  their  death-beds 
))utting  on  a  Capuchin  dress  to  go  out  of  the  world — here  is  poor 
Hood  at  his  last  hour  putting  on  his  ghastly  motley,  and  uttering 
one  joke  more. 

He  dies,  however,  in  dearest  love  and  peace  with  his  children, 
wife,  friends ;  to  the  former  especially  his  whole  life  had  been 
devoted,  and  every  day  showed  his  fidelity,  simplicity,  and  affec- 


A    JOKE    FROM    THE    LATE    THOMAS    HOOD     267 

tion.  In  going  through  the  record  of  liis  most  pure,  modest, 
honourable  life,  and  living  along  with  him,  you  come  to  trust  him 
thoroughly,  and  feel  that  here  is  a  most  loyal,  aftectionate,  and 
upright  soul,  with  whom  you  have  been  brought  into  communion. 
Can  we  say  as  much  of  the  lives  of  all  men  of  letters  1  Here  is  one 
at  least  without  guile,  without  pretension,  without  scheming,  of  a 
pure  life,  to  his  family  and  little  modest  circle  of  friends  tenderly 
devoted. 

And  what  a  hard  work,  and  what  a  slender  reward  !  In  the 
little  domestic  details  with  Avhich  the  book  abounds,  what  a  simj)le 
life  is  shown  to  us !  The  most  simple  little  pleasures  and  amuse- 
ments delight  and  occupy  him.  You  have  revels  on  shrimps ;  the 
good  wife  making  the  pie ;  details  about  the  maid,  and  criticisms 
on  her  conduct ;  wonderful  tricks  played  with  the  plum-pudding- — • 
all  the  pleasures  centring  round  the  little  humble  home.  One  of 
the  first  men  of  his  time,  he  is  appointed  editor  of  a  Magazine  at  a 
salary  of  three  hundred  poimds  per  annum,  signs  himself  cxultingly 
"  Ed.  N.  M.  M.,"  and  the  family  rejoice  over  the  income  as  over 
a  fortune.  He  goes  to  a  Greenwich  dinner— what  a  feast  and  a 
rejoicing  afterwards  ! — 

"Well,  we  drank  'the  Boz'  with  a  delectable  clatter,  which 
drew  from  him  a  good  warm-hearted  speech.  .  .  .  He  looked  very 
well,  and  had  a  younger  brother  along  witli  him.  .  .  .  Tlien  we 
had  songs.     Barham  chanted  a  Robin  Hood  ballad,  and  Ciuikshank 

sang  a  burlesque  ballad  of  Lord  H ;  and  somebody,  unknown 

to  me,  gave  a  capital  imitation  of  a  French  showman.  Then  we 
toasted  Mrs.  Boz,  and  the  Chairman,  and  Vice,  and  the  Traditional 
Priest  sang  the  '  Deep  deep  sea,'  in  his  deep  deep  voice ;  and  then 
we  drank  to  Procter,  who  Avrote  the  said  song ;  also  Sir  J.  Wilson's 
good  health,  and  Cruikshank's,  and  Ainsworth's  :  and  a  Manchester 
friend  of  the  latter  sang  a  Manchester  ditty,  so  full  of  trading  stuflC, 
that  it  really  seemed  to  have  been  not  composed,  but  manufactured. 
Jerdan,  as  Jerdanish  as  usual  on  such  occasions — you  know  how 
paradoxically  he  is  quite  at  home  in  dining  out.  As  to  myself,  I 
had  to  make  my  second  maiden  speech,  for  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes 
proposed  my  health  in  terms  my  modesty  might  allow  me  to  repeat 
to  you,  but  my  memory  won't.  However,  I  ascribed  the  toast  to 
my  notoriously  bad  health,  and  assured  them  that  their  wishes  had 
already  improved  it — that  I  felt  a  brisker  circulation — a  more 
genial  warmth  abdut  tlic  heart,  and  explained  that  a  certain 
trembling  of  my  hand  was  not  from  ])a]sy,  or  my  old  ague,  but  an 
inclination  in  my  hand  to  shake  itself  with  every  one  i)resent. 
Whereupon    I   had   to  go   through  the  friendly  ceremony  with  as 


268  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

many  of  the  company  as  Avere  within  reach,  besides  a  few  more  who 
came  express  from  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Very  gratifying, 
wasn't  it  1  '  Though  I  cannot  go  quite  so  far  as  Jane,  who  wants 
me  to  have  that  hand  chopped  off,  bottled,  and  preserved  in  spirits. 
She  was  sitting  up  for  me,  very  anxiously,  as  usual  when  I  go  out, 
because  I  am  so  domestic  and  steady,  and  was  down  at  the  door 
before  I  could  ring  at  the  gate,  to  wiiich  Boz  kindly  sent  nie  in  his 
own  carriage.  Poor  girl !  what  would  she  do  if  she  had  a  wild 
husband  instead  of  a  tame  one  1 " 

And  the  poor  anxious  wife  is  sitting  up,  and  fondles  the  hand 
which  has  been  shaken  by  so  many  illustrious  men  !  The  little 
feast  dates  back  only  eighteen  years,  and  yet  someliow  it  seems  as 
distant  as  a  dinner  at  Mr.  Thrale's,  or  a  meeting  at  AVill's. 

Poor  little  gleam  of  sunshine  !  very  little  good  cheer  enlivens 
that  sad  simple  life.  We  have  the  triumph  of  the  Magazine  :  then 
a  new  Magazine  projected  and  jiroduced  :  then  illness  and  the  last 
scene,  and  the  kind  Peel  by  the  dying  nian's  bedside  speaking  noble 
words  of  resi)ect  and  sympathy,  and  soothing  the  last  throbs  of  the 
tender  honest  heart. 

I  like,  I  say.  Hood's  life  even  better  than  his  books,  and  I 
wish,  with  all  my  heart,  Monsieitr  et  cher  cmifrere,  the  same  could 
be  said  for  both  of  us,  when  the  inkstream  of  our  life  hath  ceased 
to  run.  Yes :  if  I  drop  first,  dear  Baggs,  I  trust  you  may  find 
reason  to  modify  some  of  the  inifavourable  views  of  my  character, 
which  you  are  freely  imparting  to  our  mutual  friends.  What  ought 
to  be  the  literary  man's  point  of  honour  nowadays  ?  Suppose, 
friendly  reader,  you  are  one  of  the  craft,  what  legacy  would  you 
like  to  leave  to  your  childi'en'?  First  of  all  (and  by  Heaven's 
gracious  lielp)  you  would  pray  and  strive  to  give  them  such  an 
endowment  of  love,  as  should  last  certainly  for  all  their  lives,  and 
perhaps  be  transmitted  to  their  children.  You  would  (by  the  same 
aid  and  blessing)  keep  your  honour  pure,  and  transmit  a  name 
unstained  to  those  who  have  a  right  to  bear  it.  You  would, — 
tliough  this  faculty  of  giving  is  one  of  the  easiest  of  the  literary 
man's  qualities — you  Avould,  out  of  your  earnings,  small  or  great,  be 
able  to  help  a  poor  brother  in  need,  to  dress  his  wounds,  and,  if  it 
were  but  twopence,  to  give  him  succoin*.  Is  the  money  which  the 
noble  Macaulay  gave  to  the  poor  lost  to  his  family  ?  God  forbid. 
To  the  loving  hearts  of  his  kindred  is  it  not  rather  the  most  precious 
l)art  of  their  inheritance  %  It  was  invested  in  love  and  righteous 
doing,  and  it  bears  interest  in  heaven.  You  will,  if  letters  be  your 
vocation,  find  saving  harder  than  giving  and  spending.  To  save  be 
your  endeavour,  too,  against  the  night's  coming  when  no  man  may 


A  JOKE  FROM  THE  LATE  THOMAS  HOOD  269 

work ;  when  the  arm  is  weary  witli  tlie  long  day's  labour ;  when 
the  brain  perhaps  grows  dark ;  when  the  old,  who  can  labour  no 
more,  want  warmth  and  rest,  and  the  young  ones  call  for  supper. 


I  copied  the  little  galley-slave  who  is  made  to  figure  in  the 
initial  letter  of  this  paper,  from  a  quaint  old  silver  spoon  which  we 
purchased  in  a  curiosity-shop  at  the  Hague.  It  is  one  of  the  gift 
spoons  so  common  in  Holland,  and  which  have  multiplied  so  aston- 
ishingly of  late  years  at  our  dealers'  in  old  silverware.  Along  the 
stem  of  the  spoon  are  written  the  words:  "Anno  1609,  Bin  ick 
aldus  gheliledt  (jheghaen^' — "In  the  year  1609  I  went  thus  clad." 
The  good  Dutcliman  was  released  from  his  Algerine  captivity  (I 
imagine  his  figure  looks  like  that  of  a  slave  amongst  the  Moors), 
and  in  his  thank-offering  to  some  godchild  at  home,  he  thus  piously 
records  his  escape. 

Was  not  i)oor  Cervantes  also  a  captive  amongst  the  Moors? 
Did  not  Fielding,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Smollett,  too,  die  at  the 
chain  as  well  as  i)Oor  Hoodl  Think  of  Fielding  going  on  board  his 
wretched  ship  in  the  Thames,  with  scarce  a  hand  to  bid  him  fare- 
well ;  of  brave  Tobias  Smollett,  and  his  life,  how  hard,  and  how 
poorly  rewarded ;  of  Goldsmith,  and  the  physician  whispering, 
"Have  you  something  on  your  mind'?"  and  the  wild  dying  eyes 
answering,  "  Yes."  Notice  how  Boswell  speaks  of  Goldsmith,  and 
tlie  splendid  contemjit  with  which  he  regards  him.  Read  Hawkins 
on  Fielding,  ami  the  scorn  with  which  Dandy  Walpole  and  Bishoj) 
Hurd  speak  of  him.  Galley-slaves  doomed  to  tug  the  oar  and  wear 
the  chain,  whilst  my  Lords  and  dandies  take  their  pleasure,  and 
hear  fine  music  and  disport  with  fine  ladies  in  the  cabin  ! 

But  stay.  Was  there  any  cause  for  this  scorn  1  Had  some 
of  these  great  men  weaknesses  which  gave  inferiors  advantage  over 
them  ?  Men  of  letters  cannot  lay  their  hands  on  their  hearts,  and 
say,  "  No,  the  fault  was  fortune's,  and  the  indifferent  world's,  not 
Goldsmith's  nor  Fielding's."  There  was  no  reason  why  Oliver 
sliould  always  be  thriftless;  why  Fielding  and  Steele  should  sponiic 
upon  their  friends  ;  why  Sterne  should  make  love  to  his  neiglibt»urs" 
wives.  Swift,  for  a  long  time,  was  as  poor  as  any  wag  that  evci- 
laughed  :  but  he  owed  no  penny  to  his  neighbours  :  Addison,  when 
lie  wore  his  most  threadbare  coat,  could  hold  his  head  up,  and  main- 
tain his  dignity :  and,  I  dare  vouch,  neither  of  those  gentlemen, 
when  they  were  ever  so  poor,  asked  any  man  alive  to  pity  their 
condition,  and  have  a  regard  to  the  weaknesses  incidental  to  the 
literary   profession.     Galley-slave,    forsooth !     If  you   are    sent   to 


270  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

prison  for  some  error  for  wliich  the  law  awards  that  sort  of  laborious 
seclusion,  so  much  the  more  shame  for  you.  If  you  are  chained  to 
the  oar  a  prisoner  of  war,  like  Cervantes,  you  have  the  pain,  but 
not  the  shame,  and  the  friendly  compassion  of  mankind  to  reward 
you.  Galley-slaves,  indeed  !  What  man  has  not  his  oar  to  pull  ? 
There  is  that  wonderful  old  stroke-oar  in  the  Queen's  galley.  How 
many  years  has  he  pulled  1  Day  and  night,  in  rough  water  or 
smooth,  witli  what  invincible  vigour  and  surprising  gaiety  he  plies 
his  arms  !  There  is  in  the  same  Galere  Capitaine,  that  well-known 
trim  figure,  the  bow-oar  :  how  he  tugs,  and  with  what  a  will ! 
How  both  of  them  have  been  abused  in  their  time  !  Take  the 
Lawyer's  galley,  and  that  dauntless  octogenarian  in  command : 
when  has  he  ever  complained  or  repined  about  his  slavery  ?  There 
is  the  Priest's  galley — black  and  lawn  sails:  do  any  mariners  out 
of  Thames  work  harder  ?  When  lawyer,  and  statesman,  and  divine, 
and  writer  a'-e  snug  in  bed,  there  is  a  ring  at  the  poor  Doctor's  bell. 
Forth  he  must  go,  in  rheumatism  or  snow ;  a  galley-slave  bearing 
his  galley-pots  to  quench  the  flames  of  fever,  to  succour  mothers 
and  young  children  in  their  hour  of  peril,  and,  as  gently  and  sooth- 
ingly as  may  be,  to  carry  the  hopeless  patient  over  to  the  silent 
shore.  And  have  we  not  just  read  of  the  actions  of  the  Queen's 
galleys  and  their  brave  crews  in  the  Chinese  waters'?  Men  not 
more  worthy  of  human  renown  and  honour  to-day  in  their  victory, 
than  last  year  in  their  glorious  hour  of  disaster.  So  with  stout 
Jiearts  may  we  ply  the  oar,  messmates  all,  till  the  voyage  is  over, 
and  the  Harbour  of  Rest  is  found. 


ROUND  ABOUT  TIlE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 


THE  kindly  Christmas  tree,  from  which  I  trust  every  gentle 
reader  has  pulled  a  bonbon  or  two,  is  yet  all  aflame  Avhilst  I 
am  writing,  and  sparkles  with  the  sweet  fruits  of  its  season. 
You  young  ladies,  may  you  have  pkurked  pretty  giftliiigs  from  it  : 
and  out  of  the  cracker  sugar-i)lum  which  you  have  split  with  the 
captain  or  the  sweet  young  curate  may  you  have  read  one  of  those 
delicious  conundrums  which  the  confectioners  introduce  into  ll.e 
sweetmeats,  and  wliixdi  apply  to  the  cunning  jiassion  of  love.  Those 
liddles  are  to  be  read  at  your  age,  when  I  darespy  they  are  amusing. 
As  for  Dolly,  Merry,  and  Bell,  who  are  standing  at  the  tree,  Ihcy 
don't  care  about  the  love-riddle  part,  but  understand  the  sweet- 
almond  portion  very  well.  They  are  four,  five,  six  years  old. 
Patience,  little  people  !  A  dozen  merry  Christmascs  more,  and  you 
will  be  reading  those  wonderful  love-conundrums,  too.  As  for  us 
elderly  folks,  we  watch  the  babies  at  their  sport,  and  the  young 
people  pulling  at  the  branches  :  and  instead  of  finding  bonbons  or 
sweeties  in  the  packets  which  ^/'c  pluck  oft"  the  boughs,  we  find 
enclosed  Mr.  Carnifex's  review  of  the  quarter's  meat  ;  Mr.  Sartor's 
compliments,  and  little  statement  for  self  and  the  young  gentlemen  : 
and  Madame  de  Sainte-Crinoline's  respects  to  the  yor.ng  ladies,  wlio 
encloses  her  account,  and  will  send  on  Saturday,  please  ;  or  a\  e 
stretch  our  hand  out  to  the  educational  branch  of  the  Christmas 
tree,  and  there  find  a  lively  and  amusing  article  fron)  the  Eevert  i:d 
Henry  Holyshade,  containing  our  dear  Tommy's  exceedingly  modc- 
i-ate  account  for  the  last  term's  school  expenses. 

The  tree  yet  sparkles,  I  say.  I  am  writing  on  the  day  befcjie 
Twelfth  Day,  if  you  must  know;  but  already  ever  so  many  of  tli(; 
fi'uits  have  been  pulled,  and  the  Christmas  lights  have  gone  cut. 
Bobby  Miseltow,  wdio  has  been  staying  with  us  for  a  week  (and 
who  has  been  sleeping  mysteriously  in  tlie  bath-room),  comes  to  say 
he  is  going  away  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  holidays  with  his  grar.d- 
mother — and  I  brush  away  the  maidy  tear  of  regret  as  I  part  with 
the  dear  child.  "  Well,  Bob,  good-bye,  since  you  will  go.  Com])li- 
roeuts  to  graudmanuua.     Thank  her  for  the  turkey.     Here's -" 


272  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

{A  slight  2yecuniary  transaction  takes  place  at  this  Juncture,  and 
Bob  nods  and  idnks,  and  2ntts  his  hand  in  his  waistcoat  pochet.) 
"  You  have  had  a  pleasant  week  ? " 

Bob.  "  Haven't  I !  "  {And  exit,  anxious  to  know  the  amount 
of  the  coin  ivhich  has  just  changed  hands.) 

He  is  gone,  and  as  the  dear  boy  vanishes  through  the  door 
(behind  which  I  see  him  perfectly),  I  too  cast  up  a  little  account 
of  our  past  Christmas  week.  When  Bob's  holidays  are  over,  and 
the  printer  has  sent  me  back  this  manuscript,  I  know  Christmas 
will  be  an  old  story.  All  the  fruit  will  be  off  the  Christmas  tree 
then  ;  the  crackers  will  have  cracked  off;  the  almonds  will  have 
been  crunched ;  and  the  sweet-bitter  riddles  will  have  been  read  ; 
the  lights  will  have  perished  off  the  dark  green  boughs ;  the  toys 
growing  on  them  will  have  been  distributed,  fought  for,  cherished, 
neglected,  broken.  Ferdinand  and  Fidelia  will  each  keep  out  of  it 
(be  still,  my  gushing  heart !)  the  remembrance  of  a  riddle  read 
together,  of  a  double-almond  munched  together,  and  the  moiety  of 
an  exploded  cracker.  .  .  .  Tlie  maids,  I  say,  will  have  taken  down 
all  tliat  holly  stuff  and  nonsense  about  the  clocks,  lamps,  and  looking- 
glasses,  the  dear  boys  will  be  back  at  school,  fondly  thinking  of  the 
pantomime-fairies  whom  they  have  seen ;  whose  gaudy  gossamer 
wings  are  battered  by  this  time;  and  whose  pink  cotton  (or  silk 
is  if?)  lower  extremities  are  all  dingy  and  dusty.  Yet  but  a 
few  days.  Bob,  and  flakes  of  paint  will  have  cracked  off  the  fairy 
flower-bowers,  and  the  revolving  temples  of  adamantine  lustre  will 
be  as  shabby  as  the  city  of  Pekin.  When  you  read  this,  will 
Clown  still  be  going  on  lolling  his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
saying  "  How  are  you  to-morrow  ? "  To-morroAV,  indeed  !  He  must 
be  almost  ashamed  of  himself  (if  that  cheek  is  still  capable  of  the 
blush  of  shame)  for  asking  the  absurd  question.  To-morrow,  indeed  ! 
To-morrow  the  diffugient  snows  will  give  place  to  Spring;  the 
snowdrops  will  lift  their  heads ;  Ladyday  may  be  expected,  and  the 
pecuniary  duties  peculiar  to  that  feast ;  in  place  of  bonbons,  trees 
will  have  an  eruption  of  light  green  knobs ;  the  whitebait  season 
will  bloom  ...  as  if  one  need  go  on  describing  these  vernal  pheno- 
mena, when  Christmas  is  still  liere,  though  ending,  and  the  subject 
of  my  discourse  ! 

We  have  all  admired  the  illustrated  papers,  and  noted  how 
boisterously  jolly  they  become  at  Christmas  time.  What  wassail- 
bowls,  robin-redbreasts,  waits,  snow  landscapes,  bursts  of  Christmas 
song  !  And  then  to  think  that  these  festivities  are  prepared  months 
before— that  these  Christmas  pieces  are  proplietic !  How  kind  of 
artists  and  poets  to  devise  the  fesrivities  beforehand,  and  serve  them 
pat  at  the  proper  time !     We  ought  to  be  grateful  to  them,  as  to 


ROUND    ABOUT    THE    CHRISTMAS    TREE     273 

the  cook  who  gets  up  at  midnight  and  sets  the  pudding  a-boiling 
which  is  to  feast  us  at  six  o'clock.  I  often  think  with  gratitude  of 
the  famous  Mr.  Nelson  Lee — the  author  of  I  don't  know  how  many 
hundred  glorious  pantomimes — walking  by  the  summer  wave  at 
Margate,  or  Brighton  perhaps,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  idea  of 
some  new  gorgeous  spectacle  of  faery,  which  the  winter  shall  see 
complete.  He  is  like  cook  at  midnight  (si  parva  licet).  He  watches 
and  tiiinks.  He  pounds  the  sparkling  sugar  of  benevolence,  tlie 
plums  of  fancy,  the  sweetmeats  of  fun,  the  figs  of — well,  the  figs  of 
fairy  fiction,  let  us  say,  and  pops  the  whole  in  the  seething  cauldron 
of  imagination,  and  at  due  season  serves  up  the  Pantomime. 

Very  few  men  in  the  course  of  nature  can  expect  to  see  nil  the 
pantomimes  in  one  season,  but  I  hope  to  the  end  of  my  life  I  shall 
never  forego  reading  about  them  in  that  delicious  sheet  of  the  Times 
which  appears  on  the  morning  after  Boxing-day.  Peihaps  reading 
is  even  better  than  seeing.  The  best  way,  I  think,  is  to  say  you 
are  ill,  lie  in  bed,  and  have  the  paper  for  two  hours,  reading  all  the 
way  down  from  Drury  Lane  to  the  Britannia  at  Hoxton.  Bob  and 
I  went  to  two  pantomimes.  One  was  at  the  Tlieatre  of  Fancy,  and 
the  other  at  the  Fairy  Opera,  and  I  don't  know  which  we  liked 
the  best. 

At  the  Fancy,  we  saw  "  Harlequin  Hamlet,  or  Daddy's  Gliost 
and  Nunky's  Pison,"  wliich  is  all  very  well — but,  gentlemen,  if  you 
don't  respect  Shakspeare,  to  whom  will  you  be  civil "?  The  palace 
and  ramparts  of  Elsinore  by  moon  and  snowligiit  is  one  of  Louther- 
bourg's  finest  eftbrts.  The  banqueting  hall  of  the  palace  is 
illuminated :  the  peaks  and  gables  glitter  with  the  snow :  the 
sentinels  march  blowing  their  fingers  for  the  cold — the  freezing  of  the 
nose  of  one  of  them  is  very  neatly  and  dexterously  arranged  :  the 
snow-storm  rises  :  the  winds  howl  awfully  along  the  battlements  : 
the  waves  come  curling,  leaping,  foaming  to  shore.  Hamlet's 
umbrella  is  wliirled  away  in  the  storm.  He  and  his  two  friends 
stamp  on  each  otiier's  toes  to  keep  them  warm.  The  storm-spirits 
rise  in  the  air,  and  are  whirled  howling  round  the  palace  and 
the  rocks.  My  eyes !  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots  fly  hurtling 
through  the  air !  As  the  storm  reaches  its  height  (here  the  wind 
instruments  come  in  with  prodigious  effect,  and  I  compliment  I\Ir. 
Brumby  and  the  violoncellos) — as  the  snow-storm  rises  (queek. 
queek,  queek,  go  the  fiddles,  and  then  thrumpty  thrump  comes  a 
pizzicato  movement  in  Bob  Major,  which  sends  a  shiver  into  your 
very  boot-soles),  the  thunder-clouds  deepen  (bong,  bong,  bong,  from 
the  violoncellos).  The  finked  liglitning  (juivers  through  the  clouds 
in  a  zig-zag  scream  of  violins — an<l  look,  look,  look  !  as  the  frothing, 
roaring  waves  come  rushing  up  the  battlements,  and  over  the  reeling 

18 


274  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

parapet,  each  hissing  wave  becomes  a  ghost,  sends  the  giin-carriages 
rolling  over  the  platform,  and  plunges  howling  into  the  water 
again. 

Hamlet's  motlier  comes  on  to  tiie  battlements  to  look  for  her 
son.  The  storm  whips  her  umbrella  out  of  her  hands,  and  she 
retires  screaming  in  pattens. 

The  cabs  on  the  stand  in  the  great  market-place  at  Elsinore  are 
seen  to  drive  off,  and  several  people  are  drowned.  The  gas-lamps 
along  the  street  are  wrenched  from  their  foundations,  and  shoot 
through  the  troubled  air.  Whist,  rush,  hish  !  how  the  rain  roars 
and  pours !  The  darkness  becomes  awful,  always  deepened  by 
the  power  of  the  music — and  see — in  the  midst  of  a  rush,  and 
whirl,  and  scream  of  spirits  of  air  and  wave — what  is  that  ghastly 
figure  moving  hither?  It  becomes  bigger,  bigger,  as  it  advances 
down  tlie  i)latform  —more  ghastly,  more  horrible,  enormous  !  It  is 
as  tall  as  the  whole  stage.  It  seems  to  be  advancing  on  the  stalls 
a:ul  pit,  and  the  whole  house  screams  with  terror,  as  the  Ghost  of 
THE  LATE  Hamlet  couies  iu,  and  begins  to  speak.  Several  people 
faint,  and  the  liglit-fingered  gentry  pick  pockets  furiously  in  the 
darkness. 

In  the  pitchy  darl^ness,  this  awful  figure  throwing  his  eyes 
about,  tlie  gas  in  the  boxes  shuddering  out  of  sight,  and  the  wind 
instruments  bugling  the  most  horrible  wails,  the  boldest  spectator 
must  have  felt  frightened.  But  hark  !  what  is  that  silver  shimmer 
of  the  fiddles  ?  Is  it — can  it  be — the  grey  dawn  peeping  in  the 
stormy  east  1  The  ghost's  eyes  look  blankly  towards  it,  and  roll  a 
ghastly  agony.  Quicker,  quicker  ply  the  violins  of  Phoebus  Apollo. 
Redder,  redder  grow  the  orient  clouds.  Cockadoodledoo  !  crows  that 
great  cock  which  has  just  come  out  on  the  roof  of  the  palace.  And 
now  tlie  round  sun  himself  pops  up  from  behind  the  waves  of  night. 
Where  is  the  ghost?  He  is  gone  !  Purple  shadows  of  morn  "slant 
o'er  the  snowy  sward,"  the  city  wakes  up  in  life  and  sunshine,  and 
we  confess  we  are  very  much  relieved  at  the  disappearance  of  the 
ghost.     We  don't  like  those  dark  scenes  in  pantomimes. 

After  the  usual  business,  that  Ophelia  should  be  turned  into 
Columbine  was  to  be  expected  ;  but  I  confess  I  was  a  little  shocked 
when  Hamlet's  mother  became  Pantaloon,  and  was  instantly  knocked 
down  by  Clown  Chiudius.  Grimaldi  is  getting  a  little  old  now,  but 
for  real  humour  there  are  few  clowns  like  him.  Mr.  Shuter,  as  the 
gravedigger,  was  chaste  and  comic,  as  he  always  is,  and  the  scene- 
painters  surpassed  themselves. 

"  Harlequin  Conqueror  and  the  Field  of  Hastings,"  at  the  other 
house,  is  very  pleasant  too.  The  irascible  William  is  acted  with 
gi'eat  vig'-ur  by  Snoxall,  and  the  battle  of  Hastings  is  a  good  piece 


ROUND    ABOUT    THE    CHRISTMAS    TREE     275 

of  burlesque.  Some  trifling  liberties  are  taken  with  history,  but 
what  liberties  will  not  the  merry  genius  of  jiantomime  permit  him- 
self? At  the  battle  of  Hastings,  William  is  on  the  point  of  being 
defeated  by  the  Sussex  Volunteers,  very  elegantly  led  by  the  always 
pretty  Miss  Waddy  (as  Haeo  Sharpshooter),  Avhen  a  shot  from  the 
Normans  kills  Harold.  The  fairy  Edith  hereupon  comes  forward 
and  finds  his  body,  which  straightway  leaps  up  a  live  harlequin, 
whilst  the  Conqueror  makes  an  excellent  clown,  and  the  Archbishop 
of  Bayeux  a  diverting  pantaloon,  &c.  &c.  &c. 

Perhaps  these  are  not  the  pantomimes  we  really  saw  ;  but  one 
description  will  do  as  well  as  another.  The  plots,  you  see,  are  a 
little  intricate  and  diflicult  to  understand  in  i)antominies  ;  and  I 
may  have  mixed  up  one  with  another.  That  I  was  at  the  theatre 
on  Boxing-night  is  certain — but  the  pit  Mas  so  full  that  I  (-ould 
only  see  fairy  legs  glittering  in  the  distance,  as  I  stood  at  the  door. 
And  if  I  was  badly  oft",  I  think  there  was  a  young  gentleman  behind 
me  worse  oft"  still.  I  own  that  he  has  good  reason  (though  others 
have  not)  to  speak  ill  of  me  behind  my  back,  and  hereby  beg 
his  pardon. 

Likewise  to  the  gentleman  who  picked  u])  a  party  in  Piccadilly, 
who  had  slipped  and  fallen  in  the  snow,  and  was  there  on  his  liack, 
uttering  energetic  expressions,  that  party  begs  to  ott'er  thanks,  and 
compliments  of  the  season. 

Bob's  behaviour  on  New  Year's  Day,  I  can  assure  Doctor 
Holyshade,  was  highly  creditable  to  the  boy.  He  had  exj)ressed  a 
determination  to  partake  of  every  disli  which  was  put  on  the  table ; 
but  after  souj),  fish,  roast-beef,  and  roast-goose,  he  retiicd  from 
active  business  until  the  i)udding  and  mince-pies  made  their  ap])ear- 
ance,  of  which  he  i)artook  liberally  but  not  too  freely.  And  he 
greatly  advanced  in  my  good  opinion  by  praising  the  punch,  which 
was  of  my  own  manufacture,  and  which  some  gentlemen  present 
(Mr.  O'M — g — n  amongst  otliers)  pronounced  to  be  too  weak. 
Too  weak  !  A  bottle  of  rum,  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  half  a  bottle  of 
brandy,  and  two  bottles  and  a  half  of  water — can  this  mixture  be 
said  to  be  too  weak  for  any  mortal  1  Our  young  friend  amused  the 
comi)any  during  tlie  evening,  by  exhibiting  a  two-shilling  magic 
lantern,  whic'h  he  had  purchased,  and  likewise  by  singing  "  Sally, 
come  up  !  "  a  quaint,  but  rather  monotonous  melody,  which  I 
am  told  is  sung  by  tlie  poor  negro  on  the  banks  of  the  broad 
Mississippi. 

What  other  enjoyments  did  we  proff"er  for  the  child's  amusement 
during  the  Christmas  week  1  A  great  philosopher  was  giving  a 
lecture  to  young  folks  at  the  British  Institution.  But  when  this 
diversion  was  proposed  to  our  young  friend  Bob,  he  said,  "  Lecture  1 


276  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

No,  thank  you.  Not  as  I  knows  on,"  and  made  sarcastic  signals 
on  his  nose.  Perhaps  he  is  of  Doctor  Johnson's  opinion  about 
lectures :  "  Lectures,  sir !  what  man  would  go  to  hear  that  im- 
perfectly at  a  lecture,  which  he  can  read  at  leisure  in  a  book '?  "  / 
never  went,  of  my  own  choice,  to  a  lecture  :  that  I  can  vow.  As 
for  sermons,  they  are  different :  I  delight  in  them,  and  they  cannot, 
of  course,  be  too  long. 

Well,  we  partook  of  yet  otlier  Christmas  delights  besides 
pantomime,  pudding,  and  pic.  One  glorious,  one  delightful,  one 
most  unlucky  and  pleasant  day,  we  drove  in  a  brougham,  with  a 
famous  horse,  wliich  carried  us  more  quickly  and  briskly  than  any 
of  your  vulgar  railways,  over  Battersea  Bridge,  on  which  the  horse's 
hoofs  rang  as  if  it  had  been  iron  ;  through  suburban  villages,  plum- 
caked  with  snow ;  under  a  leaden  sky,  in  which  the  sun  hung  like 
a  red-hot  warming-pan  ;  by  pond  after  pond,  where  not  only  men 
and  boys,  but  scores  after  scores  of  women  and  girls,  were  sliding, 
and  roaring,  and  clap])ing  tlieir  lean  old  sides  with  laughter,  as  they 
tumbled  down,  and  tlieir  hobnailed  shoes  flew  up  in  the  air ;  the 
air  frosty,  with  a  lilac  haze,  through  which  villas,  and  commons, 
and  churches,  and  plantations  glimmei'ed.  We  drive  up  the  hill, 
Bob  and  I ;  we  make  the  last  two  miles  in  eleven  minutes  ;  we  pass 
that  poor  armless  man  who  sits  there  in  the  cold,  following  you  with 
his  eyes.  I  don't  give  anything,  and  Bob  looks  disappointed.  We 
are  set  down  neatly  at  the  gate,  and  a  horse-hohler  opens  the 
brougham-door.  I  don't  give  anything;  again  disappointment  on 
Bob's  part.  I  pay  a  shilling  apiece,  and  we  enter  into  the  glorious 
building,  which  is  decorated  for  Christmas,  and  straightway  forget- 
fulness  on  Bob's  part  of  everything  but  that  magnificent  scene.  The 
enormous  edifice  is  all  decorated  for  Bob  and  Christmas.  The  stalls, 
the  columns,  the  fountains,  courts,  statues,  splendours,  are  all 
crowned  for  Christmas.  The  delicious  negro  is  singing  his  Alabama 
choruses  for  Christmas  and  Bob.  He  has  scarcely  done,  when, 
Tootarootatoo !  Mr.  Punch  is  performing  his  surprising  actions,  and 
hanging  the  beadle.  The  stalls  are  decorated.  The  refreshment 
tables  are  piled  with  good  things ;  at  many  fountains  "  Mulled 
Claret  "  is  written  up  in  appetising  capitals.  "  Mulled  Claret — 
oh,  jolly!  How  cold  it  is!"  says  Bob;  I  pass  on.  "It's  only 
three  o'clock,"  says  Bob.  "  No,  only  three,"  I  say  meekly.  "  We 
dine  at  seven,"  sighs  Bob,  "  and  it's  so-o-o  coo-old."  I  still  would 
take  no  hints.  No  claret,  no  refreshment,  no  sandwiches,  no 
sausage-rolls  for  Bob.  At  last  I  am  obliged  to  tell  him  all.  Just 
before  we  left  home,  a  little  Christmas  bill  popped  in  at  the  door, 
and  enii)tied  my  purse  at  the  threshold.  I  forgot  all  about  the 
transaction,  and  had  to  borrow  half-a-crown  from  John  Coachman 


ROUND    ABOUT    THE    CHRISTMAS    TREE     277 

to  pay  for  our  entrance  into  the  Palace  of  Delight.  Noio  yon  see, 
Bob,  why  I  could  not  treat  you  on  that  seeoiid  of  Jaiuiary,  when 
we  drove  to  the  Palace  tni^ether ;  when  the  girls  and  boys  were 
sliding  on  the  j)onds  at  Dulwich ;  when  tlie  darkling  river  was  full 
of  floating  ice,  and  the  sun  was  like  a  warming-pan  in  the  leaden 
sky. 

One  more  Christmas  sight  we  had,  of  course  ;  and  that  sight  I 
think  I  like  as  well  as  Bob  himself  at  Christmas,  and  at  all  seasons. 
AVe  went  to  a  certain  garden  of  delight,  where,  whatever  your  cares 
are,  I  think  you  can  manage  to  forget  some  of  them,  and  muse,  and 
be  not  unhappy  :  to  a  garden  beginning  with  a  Z,  which  is  as 
lively  as  Noah's  ark  ;  where  the  fox  has  brought  his  brusli,  and 
the  cock  has  brought  his  comb,  and  the  elephant  has  brought  liis 
trunk,  and  the  kangaroo  has  brought  his  bag,  and  the  condor  his 
old  white  wig,  and  black  satin  hood.  On  tliis  ilay  it  was  so  cold 
that  the  white  bears  winked  their  pink  eyes,  as  they  plapped  up 
and  down  by  their  pool,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Aha,  this  weather 
reminds  us  of  dear  home  ! "'  "  Cold  !  bah  !  I  have  got  such  a 
warm  coat,"  says  brother  Bruin,  "  I  don't  mind ; "  and  he  laughs  on 
his  pole  and  clucks  down  a  bun.  The  squealing  hyasnas  gnashed 
their  teeth,  and  laughed  at  us  quite  refreshingly  at  their  window ; 
and,  cold  as  it  was.  Tiger,  Tiger,  burning  bright,  glared  at  us  red- 
hot  through  his  bars,  and  snorted  blasts  of  hell.  The  woolly  camel 
leered  at  us  quite  kindly  as  he  paced  round  his  ring  on  his  silent 
pads.  We  went  to  our  favourite  j^laces.  Our  dear  wombat  came 
up,  and  had  himself  scratched  very  aflablj'.  Our  fellow-creatures 
in  the  monkey-room  held  out  their  little  lilack  hands,  and  piteously 
asked  us  for  Christmas  alms.  Those  darling  alligators  on  their 
rock  winked  at  us  in  the  most  friendly  way.  The  solemn  eagles 
sat  alone  and  scowled  at  us  from  their  peaks ;  whilst  little  Tom 
Ratel  tumbled  over  head  and  heels  for  us  in  his  usual  diverting 
manner.  If  I  have  cares  on  my  mind,  I  come  to  the  Zoo,  and 
fancy  they  don't  pass  the  gate.  I  recognise  my  friends,  my  enemies, 
in  countless  cages.  I  entertained  the  eagle,  the  vulture,  the  old 
billy-goat,  and  the  black-pated,  crimson-necked,  blear-eyed,  baggy, 
hook-beaked  old  marabou  stork  yesterday  at  dinner ;  and  when 
Bob's  aunt  came  to  tea  in  the  evening,  and  asked  him  what  he  had 
seen,  he  stepped  up  to  her  gravely,  and  said — 

"  First  I  saw  tlie  white  bear,  then  I  saw  the  black, 
Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back. 

Chorus  of  Children. 
Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back  I 


278  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Then  T  saw  the  grey  wolf,  with  mutton  in  his  maw  ; 
Then  I  saw  the  wombat  waiWle  in  tlie  straw  ; 
Then  I  saw  the  elephant  with  his  waving  trunk, 
Then  I  saw  the  monkeys — mercy,  how  unpleasantly 
they smelt  !  " 

There  !  No  one  can  beat  that  piece  of  wit,  can  he,  Bob  1  And  so 
it  is  all  over ;  but  we  had  a  jolly  time,  whilst  you  were  with  us, 
hadn't  we  1  Present  my  respects  to  the  Doctor ;  and  I  hope,  my 
boy,  we  may  spend  another  merry  Christmas  next  year. 


ON  A   CHALK-MARK  ON  THE  DOOR 


ON  the  door-post  of  the  house  of  a  friend  of  mine,  a  few 
inches  above  the  lock,  is  a  little  chalk-mark,  -which  some 
sportive  boy  in  passing  has  probably  scratched  on  the 
pillar.  The  door-steps,  tlie  lock,  handle,  and  so  forth,  are  kept 
decently  enough ;  but  this  chalk-mark,  I  suppose  some  three  inches 
out  of  the  housemaid's  beat,  has  already  been  on  the  door  for  more 
than  a  fortnight,  and  I  wonder  whether  it  will  be  there  whilst  this 
paper  is  being  written,  whilst  it  is  at  the  printer's,  and,  in  fine, 
until  the  month  passes  over?  I  wonder  whether  the  servants  in 
that  house  will  read  these  remarks  about  the  chalk-mark  1  Tliat 
the  Coimhill  Magazine  is  taken  in  in  that  house  I  know.  In  foct 
I  have  seen  it  there.  In  fact  I  have  read  it  there.  In  foct  I  have 
written  it  there.  In  a  word,  the  house  to  which  I  allude  is  mine — 
the  "  editor's  private  residence,"  to  which,  in  spite  of  prayers, 
entreaties,  commands,  and  threats,  authors,  and  ladies  especially, 
^vill  send  their  communications,  although  they  won't  understand 
that  they  injure  their  own  interests  by  so  doing ;  for  how  is  a  man 
who  has  his  own  work  to  do,  his  own  exquisite  inventions  to  form 
and  perfect — Maria  to  rescue  from  the  unprincipled  Earl— the 
atrocious  General  to  confound  in  his  own  machinations — tlie  angelic 
Dean  to  promote  to  a  bishopric,  and  so  forth — how  is  a  man  to  do 
all  this,  under  a  hundred  interruptions,  and  keep  his  nerves  and 
temper  in  that  just  and  equable  state  in  which  they  ought  to  be 
when  he  comes  to  assume  the  critical  office  1  As  you  Avill  send  here, 
ladies,  I  must  tell  you  you  have  a  much  worse  chance  than  if  you 
forward  your  valuable  articles  to  Coridiill.  Here  your  papers 
arrive,  at  dinner-time,  we  Avill  say.  Do  you  suppose  that  is  a 
pleasant  period,  and  that  we  are  to  criticise  you  between  the  ovum 
and  malum,  between  tlie  soup  and  the  dessert  1  I  have  touched, 
I  think,  on  this  subject  before.  I  say  again,  if  you  want  real 
justice  shown  you,  don't  send  your  papers  to  the  private  residence. 
At  home,  for  instance,  yesterday,  having  given  strict  orders  that 
I  was  to  receive  nobody,  "  except  on  business,"  do  you  suppose  a 
smiling  young  Scottish   gentleman,   who   forced  himself  into  my 


280  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

study,  and  there  announced  himself  as  agent  of  a  Cattle-food 
Company,  was  received  with  pleasure'?  There,  as  I  sat  in  my 
arm-chair,  suppose  he  had  proposed  to  draw  a  couple  of  my  teeth, 
would  I  have  been  pleased?  I  could  have  throttled  that  agent. 
I  daresay  the  whole  of  that  day's  work  will  be  found  tinged  Avith 
a  ferocious  misanthropy,  occasioned  by  my  clever  young  friend's 
intrusion.  Cattle-food  indeed  !  As  if  beans,  oats,  warm  mashes, 
and  a  ball,  are  to  be  pushed  down  a  man's  throat  just  as  he  is 
meditating  on  the  great  social  problem,  or  (for  I  think  it  was  my 
epic  I  was  going  to  touch  up)  just  as  he  was  about  to  soar  to  the 
height  of  the  empyrean  ! 

Having  got  my  cattle-agent  out  of  the  door,  I  resume  my  con- 
sideration of  that  little  mark  on  the  door-post,  which  is  scored  up 
as  tlie  text  of  the  present  little  sermon ;  and  whicli  I  hope  will 
relate,  not  to  chalk,  nor  to  any  of  its  special  uses  or  abuses  (such 
as  milk,  neck-powder,  and  the  like),  but  to  servants.  Surely  ours 
might  remove  that  unseemly  little  mark.  Suppose  it  were  on  my 
coat,  might  I  not  request  its  removall  I  remember,  when  I  was 
at  school,  a  little  careless  boy,  upon  whose  forehead  an  ink-mark 
remained,  and  was  perfectly  recognisable  for  three  weeks  after  its 
first  appearance.  May  I  take  any  notice  of  this  chalk-stain  on  tlie 
forehead  of  my  house  1  Whose  business  is  it  to  wash  that  forehead  1 
and  ought  I  to  fetch  a  brush  and  a  little  hot  water,  and  wash  it  off 
myself? 

Yes.  But  that  spot  removed,  why  not  come  down  at  six,  and 
wash  the  doorsteps '?  I  daresay  the  early  rising  awl  exercise  would 
do  me  a  great  deal  of  good.  The  housemaid,  in  tliat  rase,  might  lie 
in  bed  a  little  later,  and  have  her  tea  and  the  morning  paper  brought 
to  her  in  bed  :  then,  of  course,  Thomas  would  expect  to  be  helped 
about  the  boots  and  knives ;  cook  about  the  saucepans,  dishes,  and 
what  not ;  the  lady's-maid  would  want  somebody  to  take  the  curl- 
papers out  of  her  hair,  and  get  her  bath  ready.  You  should  have  a 
set.  of  servants  for  !he  servants,  and  these  imder-servants  should 
have  slaves  to  wait  on  them.  The  king  commands  the  first  lord  in 
waiting  to  desire  the  second  lord  to  intimate  to  the  gentleman  usher 
to  request  the  page  of  the  antechamber  to  entreat  the  groom  of  the 
stairs  to  implore  Jolin  to  ask  the  captain  of  the  buttons  to  desire 
the  maid  of  the  still-room  to  beg  the  housekeeper  to  give  out  a  few 
more  lumps  of  sugar,  as  his  Majesty  has  none  for  his  coffee,  which 
probably  is  getting  cold  during  the  negotiation.  In  our  little 
Brenttbrds  we  are  all  kings,  more  or  less.  There  are  orders,  grada- 
tions, hierarchies,  everywhere.  In  your  house  and  mine  there  are 
mysteries  unknown  to  us.  I  am  not  going  into  the  horrid  old 
question  of  "followers."     I  don't  mean  cousins  from  the  country, 


YOUTHFUL   PIRATES. 


ON    A    CHALK-MARK    ON    THE    DOOR        281 

love-strickeii  policemen,  or  gentlemen  in  mufti  from  Knightsbridge 
Barnicks  ;  but  people  who  have  an  occult  right  on  the  premises  ;  the 
uncovenanted  servants  of  the  house ;  grey  women  who  are  seen  at 
evening  with  baskets  flitting  about  area-railings  ;  dingy  shawls  which 
drop  you  furtive  curtseys  in  your  neighbourhood ;  demure  little 
Jacks,  who  start  up  from  behind  boxes  in  the  pantry.  Those  out- 
siders wear  Thomas's  crest  and  livery,  and  call  him  "  Sir  " ;  those 
silent  women  address  the  female  servants  as  "Mum,"  and  curtsey 
before  them,  squaring  their  arms  over  their  wretched  lean  aprons. 
Then,  again,  those  servi  servornm  have  dependants  in  the  vast, 
silent,  poverty-stricken  world  outside  your  comfoiiable  kitchen 
fire,  in  the  world  of  darkness,  and  hunger,  and  miserable  cold,  and 
dank  flagged  cellars,  and  huddled  straw,  and  rags,  in  which  i)a]e 
children  are  swarming.  It  may  be  your  beer  (which  runs  with 
great  volubility)  has  a  pii)e  or  two  which  communicates  with  those 
dark  caverns  where  hopeless  anguish  pours  the  groan,  and  would 
scarce  see  light  but  for  a  scrap  or  two  of  candle  which  has  been 
whipped  away  from  your  worship's  kitchen.  Not  many  years  ago 
^I  don't  know  whether  before  or  since  that  white  mark  was  drawn 
on  the  door — a  lady  occupied  the  confidential  place  of  housemaid 
in  this  "private  residence,"  who  brought  a  good  charactei-,  who 
seemed  to  have  a  cheerful  temper,  whom  I  used  to  hear  clattering 
and  bumping  overhead  or  on  tlie  stairs  long  before  dayliglit — there, 
I  say,  was  poor  Camilla,  scouring  the  plain,  trundling,  and  l)rushing, 
and  clattering  with  her  pans  and  brooms,  and  humming  at  her 
work.  Well,  she  had  established  a  smuggling  communication  of 
beer  over  the  area  frontier.  This  neat-handed  Phyllis  used  to  pack 
up  the  nicest  baskets  of  my  provender,  and  convey  them  to  some- 
body outside — I  believe,  on  my  conscience,  to  some  poor  friend  in 
distress.  Camilla  was  consigned  to  her  doom.  She  was  sent  back 
to  her  friends  in  the  country :  and  when  she  was  gone  we  heard 
of  many  of  her  fiiults.  Slie  expressed  herself,  when  disjileased,  in 
language  that  I  shall  not  repeat.  As  for  the  beer  and  meat,  there 
was  no  mistake  about  them.  But  api-es  ?  Can  I  have  the  heart 
to  be  very  angry  with  that  poor  jade  for  helping  another  poorer  jade 
out  of  my  larder?  On  your  honour  and  conscience,  when  you  were 
a  boy,  and  the  apples  looked  temptingly  over  Farmer  Quarringdon's 

hedge,  did  you  never- 1     When  there  was  a  grand   dinner   at 

home,  and  you  were  sliding,  with  Master  Bacon,  up  and  down  the 
stairs,  and  the  dishes  came  out,  did  you  ever  do  such  a  thing  as 

just  to 1     Well,  in  many  and  many  a  respect  servants  are  like 

children.  They  are  imder  domination.  They  are  subject  to 
reproof,  to  ill-temi)er,  to  jtetty  exactions  and  stu}»id  tyrannies  not 
seldom.     They  scheme,  conspire,  fawn,  and  are  hypocrites.    "  Little 


282  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

boys  should  not  loll  on  chairs."  "  Little  girls  should  be  seen,  and 
not  heard ; "  and  so  forth.  Have  we  not  almost  all  learnt  these 
expressions  of  old  foozles  :  and  uttered  them  ourselves  wlien  in  the 
square-toed  state?  The  Eton  master  who  was  breaking  a  lance 
with  our  Paterfamilias  of  late,  turned  on  Paterfamilias,  saying, 
He  knows  not  the  nature  and  exquisite  candour  of  well-bred 
English  boys.  Exquisite  fiddlestick's  end,  Mr.  Master !  Do  you 
mean  for  to  go  for  to  tell  us  that  the  relations  between  young 
gentlemen  and  their  schoolmasters  are  entirely  frank  and  cordial ; 
that  the  lad  is  familiar  with  tlie  man  who  can  have  him  flogged ; 
never  shirks  his  exercises ;  never  gets  otlier  boys  to  do  his  verses ; 
never  does  other  buys'  verses ;  never  breaks  bounds ;  never  tells 
fibs — I  mean  the  fibs  permitted  by  scholastic  honour  1  Did  I  know 
of  a  boy  who  pretended  to  such  a  character,  I  would  forbid  my 
scapegraces  to  keep  company  with  him.  Did  I  know  a  school- 
master who  pretended  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  many  hundred 
such  boys  in  one  school  at  one  time,  I  would  set  that  man  down  as 
a  baby  in  knowledge  of  the  world.  "  Who  was  making  that 
noise?"  "I  don't  know,  sir." — And  he  knows  it  was  the  boy  next 
him  in  school.  "Who  was  climbing  over  that  wall?"  "I  don't 
know,  sir." — And  it  is  in  the  speaker's  own  trousers,  very  likely, 
the  glass-bottle  tops  have  left  their  crufel  scars.  And  so  with 
servants.  "  Who  ate  up  the  three  pigeons  which  went  down  in 
the  pigeon-pie  at  breakfast  this  morning?"  "Oh  dear  me!  sir, 
it  was  John,  who  went  away  last  month  ! " — or,  "  I  think  it  was 
Miss  Mary's  canary-bird,  wliich  got  out  of  the  cage,  and  is  so  fond 
of  pigeons,  it  never  can  have  enough  of  them."  Yes,  it  roas  the 
canary-bird ;  and  Eliza  saw  it ;  and  Eliza  is  ready  to  vow  she  did. 
These  statements  are  not  true ;  but  i)lease  don't  call  them  lies. 
This  is  not  lying ;  this  is  voting  with  your  party.  You  must  back 
your  own  side.  The  servants'-hall  stands  by  the  servants'-hall 
against  the  dining-room.  The  schoolboys  don't  tell  tales  of  each 
other.  They  agree  not  to  choose  to  know  who  has  made  the  noise, 
who  has  broken  the  window,  who  has  eaten  up  the  pigeons,  who 
has  picked  all  the  plover's  eggs  out  of  the  aspic,  how  it  is  that 
liqueur  brandy  of  Gledstane's  is  in  such  porous  glass  bottles — and 
so  forth.  Suppose  Brutus  had  a  footman,  who  came  and  told  him 
that  tlie  butler  drank  the  curacoa :  which  of  these  servants  would 
you  dismiss? — tlie  butler,  perliaps,  but  the  footman  certainly. 

No.  If  your  plate  and  glass  are  beautifully  bright,  your  bell 
quickly  answered,  and  Thomas  ready,  neat,  and  good-humoured,  you 
are  not  to  expect  absolute  truth  from  him.  The  very  obsequious- 
ness and  perfection  of  his  service  prevents  truth.  He  may  be  ever 
so  unwell  in  niind  or  body,  and  he  must  go  through  his  service— 


ON   A   CHALK-MARK    ON    THE    DOOR       283 

hand  the  shining  plate,  replenish  the  spotless  glass,  lay  the  glitter- 
ing fork— never  laugh  when  you  yourself  or  your  guests  joke — he 
profoundly  attentive,  and  yet  look  utterly  impassive— exchange  a 
few  hurried  curses  at  the  door  with  that  unseen  slavey  wlio  ministers 
without,  and  with  you  be  perfectly  calm  and  polite.  If  you  are  ill, 
he  will  come  twenty  times  in  an  hour  to  your  bell  :  or  leave  the  girl 
of  his  heart — his  mother,  who  is  going  to  America — his  dearest 
friend,  who  has  come  to  say  farewell— his  luncli,  and  his  glass  of 
beer  just  freshly  poured  out — any  or  all  of  these,  if  the  door-bell 
rings,  or  the  master  calk  out  "  Thomas  "  from  the  hall.  Do  you 
suppose  you  can  expect  absolute  candour  from  a  man  whom  you 
may  order  to  powder  his  hair"?  As  between  the  Reverend  Henry 
Holyshade  and  his  pu})il,  the  idea  of  entire  unreserve  is  utter  bosh  : 
so  the  truth  as  between  you  and  Jeames  or  Thomas,  or  Mary  the 
housemaid,  or  Betty  tlie  cook,  is  relative,  and  not  to  l)e  demanded 
on  one  side  or  the  other.  Why,  respectfid  civility  is  itself  a  lie, 
which  poor  Jeames  often  has  to  utter  or  perform  to  many  a  swagger- 
ing vulgarian,  who  should  black  Jeames's  boots,  did  Jeames  wear 
them  an<l  not  shoes.  There  is  your  little  Tom,  just  ten,  ordering 
the  great,  large,  quiet,  orderly  young  man  about — shrieking  calls 
for  hot  water — bullying  Jeames  because  the  boots  are  not  varnished 
enough,  or  ordering  him  to  go  to  the  stables,  and  ask  Jenkins  why 
the  deuce  Tomkins  hasn't  brought  his  pony  round— or  what  you 
will.  There  is  mamma  rapping  the  knuckles  of  Pincot  the  lady's- 
maid,  and  little  Miss  scolding  Martha,  who  waits  up  live  pair  of 
stairs  in  the  nursery.  Little  Miss,  Tommy,  papa,  mamma,  you  all 
expect  from  Martha,  from  Pincot,  from  Jenkins,  from  Jeames, 
obsequious  civility  and  willing  service.  My  dear  good  people,  you 
can't  have  truth  too.  Suppose  you  ask  for  your  newspaper,  and 
Jeames  says,  "  I'm  reading  it,  and  jest  beg  not  to  be  disturbed  : " 
or  suppose  you  ask  for  a  can  of  water,  and  he  remarks,  "  You  great 
big  'ulking  fellar,  ain't  you  big  enough  to  bring  it  hup  yoursulf  ? " 
wiiat  would  your  feelings  be  1  Now,  if  you  made  similar  proposals 
or  requests  to  Mr.  Jones  next  do(n-,  this  is  the  kind  of  answer  Jones 
would  give  you.  You  get  truth  habitually  from  equals  only  ;  so 
my  good  Mr.  Holyshade,  don't  talk  to  me  about  the  habitual  candour 
of  the  young  Etonian  of  high  birth,  or  I  have  my  own  ojjinion  of 
ijour  candour  or  discernment  when  you  do.  No.  Tom  Bowling  is 
the  soul  of  honour  and  has  been  true  to  Black-eyed  Syousan  since 
the  last  time  they  parted  at  Wa])ping  Old  Stairs  :  but  do  you 
supi)ose  Tom  is  perfectly  frank,  familiar,  and  above-board  in  his 
conversation  with  Admiral  Nelson,  K.C.B.  ?  There  arc  secrets, 
prevarications,  tibs,  if  you  will,  between  Tom  and  the  Admiral — 
between  your  crew  and  their  captain.     I  know  I  hire  a  worthy, 


284  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

clean,  agreeable,  and  conscientious  male  or  female  hypocrite,  at  so 
many  guineas  a  year,  to  do  so  and  so  for  me.  Were  he  other  than 
hypocrite  I  would  send  him  about  his  business.  Don't  let  my 
displeasure  be  too  fierce  with  him  for  a  fib  or  two  on  his  own 
account. 

Some  dozen  years  ago,  my  family  being  absent  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  countrj^,  and  my  business  detaining  me  in  London,  I  remained 
in  my  own  house  with  three  servants  on  board  wages.  I  used  only 
to  breakftist  at  home ;  and  future  ages  will  be  interested  to  know 
that  this  meal  used  to  consist,  at  that  period,  of  tea,  a  penny  roll, 
a  pat  of  butter,  and,  perhaps,  an  egg.  My  weekly  bill  used  in- 
variably to  be  about  fifty  shillings ;  so  that  as  I  never  dined  in  the 
house,  you  see,  my  breakfast,  consisting  of  the  delicacies  before 
mentioned,  cost  about  seven  shillings  and  threepence  per  diem.  I 
must,  therefore,  have  consumed  daily — 

s.     d. 
A  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  (say)    ...  13 

A  penny  roll  (say)  .....  1     0 

One  pound  of  butter  (say)       .  .         .         .  13 

One  pound  of  lump  sugar       .  \       .         .         .  10 

A  new-laid  egg      .  .         .         .         .         .         2     9 

Wiiich  is  the  only  possible  way  in  wliich  I  can  make  out  the  sum. 

Well,  I  fell  ill  while  under  this  regimen,  and  had  an  illness 
which  but  for  a  certain  doctor,  who  was  brought  to  me  by  a  certain 
kind  friend  I  had  in  those  days,  would,  I  think,  have  prevented  the 
possibility  of  my  telling  tliis  interesting  anecdote  now  a  dozen  years 
after.  Don't  be  friglitened,  my  dear  madam  ;  it  is  not  a  horrid 
sentiin^iital  account  of  a  malady  you  are  coming  to— only  a  question 
of  grocery.  This  illness,  I  say,  lasted  some  seventeen  (lays,  during 
whi(;h  the  servants  were  admirably  attentive  and  kind ;  and  poor 
John,  especially,  was  up  at  all  liours,  watcliing  night  after  night — • 
amiable,  cheerful,  untiring,  respectful,  the  very  best  of  Johns  and 
nurses. 

Twice  or  thrice  in  the  seventeen  days  I  may  have  had  a  glass 
of  eau  sucre'e — say  half-a-dozen  glasses  of  eau  sucree — certainly  not 
inore.  Well,  this  admirable,  watchful,  cheerful,  tender,  affectionate 
John  brought  me  in  a  little  bill  for  seventeen  pounds  of  sugar  con 
sumed  during  the  illness—"  Often  'ad  sugar-and-M'ater ;  always 
was  a-callin'  for  it,"  says  John,  wagging  his  head  quite  gravely. 
You  are  dead,  years  and  years  ago,  poor  John — so  patient,  so 
friendly,  so  kind,  so  cheerful  to  the  invalid  in  the  fever.  But 
confess,  now,  wherever  you  are,  that  seventeen  pounds  of  sugar  to 
make  six  glasses  of  eau  szicree  was  a  little  too  strong,  wasn't  it, 


ON    A    CHALK-MARK    ON    THE    DOOR        2Sb 

John?  Ah,  how  frankly,  how  trustily,  how  bravely  he  lied,  poor 
John !  One  evening,  being  at  Brighton  in  the  convalescence,  I 
remember  John's  step  was  unsteady,  his  voice  thick,  his  laugh 
queer— and  having  some  quinine  to  give  me,  John  brought  the  glass 
to  me — not  to  my  mouth,  but  struck  me  with  it  pretty  smartly  in 
the  eye,  which  was  not  the  way  in  which  Doctor  Elliotson  had 
intended  his  prescription  should  be  taken.  Turning  that  eye  upon 
him,  I  ventured  to  hint  that  my  attendant  had  been  drinking. 
Drinking !  I  never  was  more  humiliated  at  the  thought  of  my  own 
injustice  than  at  John's  reply.  "Drinking!  Snip  me!  I  have 
had  ony  an  'alf-pint  of  beer  with  my  dinner  at  one  o'clock  !  "  and 
he  retreats,  holding  on  by  a  chair.  These  are  fibs,  you  see,  apper- 
taining to  the  situation.  John  is  drunk.  "  Snip  him,  he  has  only 
had  an  'alf-pint  of  beer  with  his  dinner  six  hours  ago : "  and  none 
of  his  fellow-servants  will  say  otherwise.  Polly  is  smuggled  on 
board  ship.  "Who  tells  the  lieutenant  when  he  comes  his  rounds  ? 
Boys  are  playing-cards  in  the  bedroom.  The  outlying  fag  announces 
master  coming — out  go  candles — cards  popped  into  bed — boys  sound 
asleep.  Who  had  that  light  in  the  dormitory  1  Law  bless  you  ! 
the  poor  dear  innocents  are  every  one  snoring.  Every  one  snoring, 
and  every  snore  is  a  lie  told  through  the  nose  !  Suppose  one  of 
your  boys  or  mine  is  engaged  in  that  awful  crime,  are  we  going  to 
break  our  hearts  about  it  1  Conje,  come.  We  pull  a  long  face, 
waggle  a  grave  head,  and  chuckle  within  our  waistcoats. 

Between  me  and  those  fellow-creatures  of  mine  who  are  sitting 
in  the  room  below,  how  strange  and  wonderful  is  the  partition  ! 
We  meet  at  every  hour  of  the  daylight,  and  are  indebted  to  each 
other  for  a  hundred  offices  of  duty  and  comfort  of  life ;  and  we  live 
together  for  years,  and  don't  know  each  other.  John's  voice  to  me 
is  quite  different  from  John's  voice  when  it  addresses  his  mates 
below.  If  I  met  Hannah  in  the  street  with  a  bonnet  on,  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  know  her.  And  all  these  good  people  with  Avhoni 
I  may  live  for  years  and  years,  have  cares,  interests,  dear  friends 
and  relatives,  mayhap  schemes,  passions,  longing  hopes,  tragedies  of 
their  own,  from  which  a  carpet  and  a  few  planks  and  beams  utterly 
separate  me.  When  we  were  at  the  seaside,  and  poor  Ellen  ui-cd 
to  look  so  pale,  and  run  after  the  postman's  bell,  and  seize  a  letter 
in  a  great  scrawling  hand,  and  read  it,  and  cry  in  a  corner,  how 
should  we  know  that  the  poor  little  tiling's  heart  was  breaking? 
She  fetched  the  water,  and  she  smoothed  the  ribbons,  and  she  laid 
out  the  dresses,  and  brought  the  early  (uip  of  tea  in  the  morning 
just  as  if  slie  hiid  had  no  cares  to  keep  her  awake.  Henry  (who 
lived  out  of  the  house)  was  a  servant  of  a  friend  of  mine,  who  lived 
in  chambers.     There  was  a  dinner  one  day,  and  Henry  waited  all 


286  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

through  the  dinner.  The  champagne  was  properly  iced,  the  dinner 
was  excellently  served ;  every  guest  was  attended  to ;  the  dinner 
disappeared ;  tlie  dessert  was  set ;  the  claret  was  in  perfect  order, 
carefully  decanted,  and  more  ready.  And  then  Henry  said,  "  If 
you  please,  sir,  may  I  go  home  1 "  He  had  received  word  that  his 
house  was  on  fire  ;  and  having  seen  through  his  dinner,  he  wished 
to  go  and  look  after  his  children,  and  little  sticks  of  furniture. 
Why,  such  a  man's  livery  is  a  uniform  of  honour.  The  crest  on  his 
button  is  a  badge  of  bravery. 

Do  you  see — I  imagine  I  do  myself — in  these  little  instances,  a 
tinge  of  humour  1  Ellen's  heart  is  breaking  for  handsome  Jeanies 
of  Buckley  Square,  whose  great  legs  are  kneeling,  and  who  has  given 
a  lock  of  his  precious  powdered  head,  to  some  other  than  Ellen. 
Henry  is  preparing  the  sauce  for  his  master's  wild-ducks  while  the 
engines  are  squirting  over  his  own  little  nest  and  brood.  Lift  these 
figures  up  but  a  story  from  tlie  basement  to  the  ground-floor,  and 
the  fun  is  gone.  We  may  be  eii  pleme  tragedie.  Ellen  may  breathe 
her  last  sigh  vh.  blank  verse,  calling  down  blessings  upon  James  the 
profligate  who  deserts  her.  Henry  is  a  liero,  and  epaulettes  are  on 
his  shoulders.  Atqui  sciehat,  &c.  :  whatever  tortures  are  in  store 
for  him,  he  will  be  at  his  post  of  duty. 

You  concede,  however,  that  there  is  a  touch  of  humour  in  tlie 
two  tragedies  here  mentioned.  Why  1  Is  it  that  the  idea  of  persons 
in  service  is  somehow  ludicrous]  Perhaps  it  is  made  more  so  in 
this  country  by  the  splendid  appearance  of  the  liveried  domestics  of 
great  people.  When  you  think  that  we  dress  in  black  ourselves, 
and  put  our  fellow-creatures  in  green,  pink,  or  canary-coloured 
breeches  ;  that  we  order  them  to  plaster  their  iiair  with  flour,  having 
brushed  that  nonsense  out  of  our  own  heads  fifty  years  ago ;  that 
some  of  the  most  genteel  and  stately  among  us  cause  the  men  who 
drive  their  carriages  to  put  on  little  albino  wigs,  and  sit  behind 
great  nosegays — I  say  I  suppose  it  is  this  heaping  of  gold  lace, 
gaudy  colours,  blooming  plushes,  on  honest  John  Trot,  which  makes 
the  man  absurd  in  our  eyes,  wdio  need  be  nothing  but  a  simple 
reputable  citizen  and  indoor  labourer.  Suppose,  my  dear  sir,  that 
you  yourself  were  suddenly  desired  to  put  on  a  full  dress,  or  even 
undress,  domestic  uniform  with  our  friend  Jones's  crest  repeated  in 
varied  combinations  of  button  on  your  front  and  back?  Suppose, 
madam,  your  son  were  told,  that  he  could  not  get  out  except  in 
lower  garments  of  carnation  or  amber-coloured  plush — would  you 
let  him  1  .  .  .  But,  as  you  justly  say,  this  is  not  the  question,  and 
besides  it  is  a  question  fraught  with  danger,  sir;  and  radicalism, 
sir ;  and  subversion  of  the  very  foundations  of  tlie  social  fiibric, 
sir,  ,   .   .  Well,  John,  we  won't  enter  on  your  great  domestic  ques- 


ON    A    CHALK-MARK    ON    THE    DOOR        287 

tion.  Don't  let  us  disport  Avith  Jeauies's  dangerous  strength,  and 
the  edge-tools  about  his  knife-lx)ard  :  but  Avith  Betty  and  Susan 
who  wield  the  jjlayful  mop,  and  set  on  the  simmering  kettle. 
Surely  you  have  heard  Mrs.  Toddles  talking  to  Mrs.  Doddles  about 
their  mutual  maids.  Miss  Susan  must  have  a  silk  gown,  and  Miss 
Betty  must  wear  flowers  under  her  bonnet  when  she  goes  to  church 
if  you  please,  and  did  you  ever  hear  such  impudence  1  The  servant 
in  many  small  establishments  is  a  constant  and  endless  theme  of 
talk.  What  small  wage,  sleep,  meal,  wdiat  endless  scom-ing,  scold- 
ing, tramping  on  messages  fall  to  that  poor  Susan's  lot ;  what  indig- 
nation at  the  little  kindly  passing  word  with  the  grocer's  young 
man,  the  pot-boy,  the  chubby  butcher  !  Where  such  things  will 
end,  my  dear  Mrs.  Toddles,  I  don't  knoAV.  What  Avages  they  Avill 
want  next,  my  dear  Mrs.  Doddles,  &c. 

Here,  dear  ladies,  is  an  advertisement  Avhich  I  cut  out  of  the 
I'iines  a  feAv  days  since,  expressly  for  you  : — 

A  LADY  is  desirous  of  obtaining  a  SITUATION  for  a  very 
respectable  young  woman  as  HEAD  KITCHEN-MAID 
under  a  man-cook.  She  has  lived  four  years  under  a  very  good 
cook  and  housekeeper.  Can  make  ice,  and  is  an  excellent  baker. 
She  Avill  only  take  a  i)lace  in  a  very  good  family,  where  she  can 
have  the  opportunity  of  improving  herself,  and,  if  possible,  staying 
for  two  years.     Apply  by  letter  to,"  &c.  &c. 

There,  Mrs.  Toddles,  Avhat  do  you  think  of  that,  and  did  you 
everl  Well,  no,  Mrs.  Doddles.  Upon  my  word  noAv,  Mrs.  T.,  I 
don't  think  I  ever  did.  A  respectable  young  woman — as  head 
kitchen-maid — under  a  man-cook,  will  only  take  a  place  in  a  very 
good  family,  where  she  can  improve,  and  stay  two  years.  Just 
note  up  the  conditions,  Mrs.  Toddles,  mum,  if  you  please,  mum,  and 
then  let  us  see  : — 

L  This  young  woman  is  to  be  head  kitchen-maid,  that  is  to 
say,  there  is  to  be  a  chorus  of  kitchen-maids,  of  Avhich 
Y.  W.  is  to  be  chief. 

2.  She  will  only  be  situated  under  a  man-cook.  (A)  Ought  he 
to  be  a  French  cook ;  and  (B),  if  so,  would  the  lady  desire 
him  to  be  a  Protestant  1 

.3.  She  will  only  take  a  place  in  a  very  good  family.  Hoav 
old  ought  the  family  to  be,  and  Avhat  do  you  call  good  ? 
that  is  the  question.     Hoav  long  after  the  Conquest  will  do  ? 


"288  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Would  a  banker's  family  do,  or  is  a  baronet's  good  enough  ? 
Best  say  what  rank  in  the  peerage  would  be  sufficiently 
high.  But  the  lady  does  not  say  whether  she  would  like 
a  High  Church  or  a  Low  Church  family.  Ought  there 
to  be  unmarried  sons,  and  may  they  follow  a  profession? 
and  please  say  how  many  daughters  ;  and  would  the  lady 
like  them  to  be  musical  1  And  how  many  company  dinners 
a  week  1  Not  too  many,  for  fear  of  fatiguing  the  upper 
kitchen-maid ;  but  sufficient,  so  as  to  keep  the  upper 
kitchen-maid's  hand  in.  [N.B. — I  think  I  can  see  a  rather 
bewildered  expression  on  the  countenances  of  Mesdames 
Doddles  and  Toddles  as  I  am  prattling  on  in  this  easy 
bantering  way.j 

4.  The  head  kitchen-maid  wishes  to  stay  for  two  years,  and 
improve  herself  under  the  man-cook,  and  having  of  course 
sucked  the  brains  (as  the  phrase  is)  from  under  the  chef's 
nightcap,  then  the  head  kitchen-maid  wishes  to  go. 

And  upon  my  word,  Mrs.  Toddles,  mum,  I  will  go  and  fetch  the 
cab  for  her.  The  cab  1  .  Why  not  her  Ladyship's  own  carriage  and 
pair,  and  the  head  coachman  to  drive  away  the  hea<l  kitchen-maid  1 
You  see  she  stipulates  for  everything — the  time  to  come  ;  the  time 
to  stay ;  the  family  she  will  be  with  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  has 
improved  herself  enough,  of  course  the  upper  kitchen  maid  will 
step  into  the  carriage  and  drive  off. 

Well,  upon  my  word  and  conscience,  if  things  are  coming  to  this 
pass,  Mrs.  Toddles  and  Mrs.  Doddles,  mum,  I  think  I  will  go  up- 
stairs and  get  a  basin  and  a  sponge,  and  then  downstairs  and  get 
some  hot  water ;  and  then  I  will  go  and  scrub  the  chalk-mark  off 
my  own  door  with  my  own  hands. 

It  is  wiped  off,  I  declare  !  After  ever  so  many  weeks  !  Who 
has  done  it?  It  was  just  a  little  roundabout  mark,  you  know,  and 
it  was  there  for  days  and  weeks,  before  I  ever  thought  it  would  be 
the  text  of  a  Roundabout  Paper. 


ON  BEING  FOUND  OUT 


AT  the  close  (let  us  say)  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  when  I  was  a 
/-\  boy  at  a  private  and  preparatory  school  for  young  gentlemen, 
■*  *■  I  remember  the  wiseacre  of  a  master  ordering  us  all,  one 
night,  to  march  into  a  little  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
thence  to  proceed  one  by  one  into  a  tool-  or  hen-house  (I  was  but 
a  tender  little  thing  just  put  into  short  clothes,  and  can't  exactly 
say  whether  the  house  was  for  tools  or  hens),  and  in  that  house  to 
put  our  hands  into  a  sack  which  stood  on  a  bench,  a  candle  burning 
beside  it.  I  put  my  hand  into  the  sack.  My  hand  came  out  quite 
black.  I  went  and  joined  tlie  other  boys  in  the  schoolroom  :  and 
all  their  hands  were  black  too. 

By  reason  of  my  tender  age  (and  there  are  some  critics  who, 
I  hope,  will  be  satisfied  by  my  acknowledging  that  I  am  a  hundred 
and  fifty-six  next  birthday)  I  could  not  understand  what  was  the 
meaning  of  this  niglit  excursion — this  candle,  this  tool-house,  this 
bag  of  soot.  I  think  we  little  boys  were  taken  out  of  our  sleep 
to  be  brought  to  the  ordeal.  We  came,  then,  and  showed  our 
little  hands  to  the  master ;  washed  them  or  not — most  probably, 
I  sliould  say,  not — and  so  went  bewildered  back  to  bed. 

Something  had  been  stolen  in  the  school  that  day ;  and  Mr. 
Wiseacre  having  read  in  a  book  of  an  ingenious  method  of  finding 
out  a  thief  by  making  him  put  Iiis  hand  into  a  sack  (which,  if 
guilty,  the  rogue  would  shirk  from  doing),  all  we  boys  were  sub- 
jected to  the  trial.  Goodness  knows  what  the  lost  object  was,  or 
who  stole  it.  We  all  had  black  hands  to  show  to  the  master. 
And  the  thief,  Avhoever  he  was,  was  not  Found  Out  that  time. 

I  wonder  if  the  rascal  is  alive — an  elderly  scoundrel  he  nnist 
be  by  this  time ;  and  a  hoary  old  hypocrite,  to  whom  an  old 
schoolfellow  presents  his  kindest  regards — parenthetically  remarking 
what  a  dreadfid  i)lace  that  yirivate  school  was  :  cold,  chilblains,  bad 
dinners,  not  enougli  victuals,  and  caning  awful ! — Are  you  alive 
still,  I  say,  you  nameless  villain,  who  escaped  discovery  on  that 
day  of  crime?  I  hope  you  have  escaped  often  since,  old  sinner, 
.^h,  what  9f  lucky  thing  it  is,  for  you  and  me,  my  man,  that  we 


290  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

are  not  fouTul  out  in  all  our  peccadilloes ;  and'  that  our  backs  can 
slip  away  from  the  master  and  the  cane  ! 

Just  consider  what  life  would  be,  if  every  rogue  was  found  out. 
and  flogged  coram  j^oindo  !  What  a  butchery,  what  an  indecency, 
what  an  endless  swisliing  of  the  rod !  Don't  cry  out  about  my 
misanthropy.  My  good  friend  Mealyniouth,  I  will  trouble  you  to 
tell  me,  do  you  go  to  church'?  When  there,  do  you  say,  or  do 
you  not,  that  you  are  a  miserable  sinner"?  and  saying  so,  do  you 
believe  or  disbelieve  it  1  If  you  are  a  M.  S.,  don't  you  deserve 
correction,  and  aren't  you  grateful  if  you  are  to  be  let  off"?  I  say 
again,  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  that  we  are  not  all  found  out ! 

Just  picture  to  yourself  everybody  who  does  wrong  being  found 
out,  and  punished  accordingly.  Fancy  all  the  boys  in  all  the  school 
being  whipped  ;  and  then  the  assistants,  and  then  the  headmaster 
(Doctor  Badford  let  us  call  him).  Fancy  the  provost-marshal  being 
tied  up,  having  previously  superintended  the  correction  of  the  whole 
army.  After  the  young  gentlemen  have  had  their  turn  for  the 
faulty  exercises,  fancy  Doctor  Lincolnsinn  being  taken  up  for  certain 
faults  in  his  Essay  and  Review.  After  the  clergyman  has  cried 
his  peccavi,  suppose  we  hoist  up  a  Bishop,  and  give  him  a  couple 
of  dozen  !  (I  see  my  Lord  Bisliop  of  Double-Gloucester  sitting  in 
a  very  uneasy  posture  on  his  right  reverend  bench.)  After  we  have 
cast  off  the  Bishop,  what  are  we  to  say  to  the  Mhiister  who  ap- 
pointed him?  My  Lord  Cinqwarden,  it  is  painful  to  have  to  use 
personal  correction  to  a  boy  of  your  age ;  but  really  .  .  .  Siste 
tandem,  carnifex  I  The  butchery  is  too  horrible.  The  hand  drops 
powerless,  appalled  at  the  quantity  of  birch  which  it  must  cut  and 
brandish.  I  am  glad  we  are  not  all  found  out,  I  say  again ;  and 
protest,  my  dear  brethren,  against  our  having  our  deserts. 

To  fancy  all  men  found  out  and  punished  is  bad  enough ;  but 
imagine  all  women  found  out  in  the  distinguished  social  circle  in 
which  you  and  I  have  the  honour  to  move.  Is  it  not  a  mercy 
that  so  many  of  these  fair  criminals  remain  unpunished  and  un- 
discovered'? There  is  Mrs.  Longbow,  who  is  for  ever  practising, 
and  who  shoots  poisoned  arrows,  too ;  when  you  meet  her  you 
don't  call  her  liar,  and  charge  her  with  the  wickedness  she  has 
done,  and  is  doing.  There  is  Mrs.  Painter,  who  passes  for  a  most 
respectable  woman,  and  a  model  in  society.  There  is  no  use  in 
saying  what  you  really  know  regarding  her  and  her  goings  on. 
There  is  Diana  Hunter— what  a  little  haughty  prude  it  is ;  and 
yet  tve  know  stories  about  her  which  are  not  altogether  edifying. 
I  say  it  is  best,  for  the  sake  of  the  good,  that  the  bad  should 
not  all  be  found  out.  You  don't  want  your  children  to  know  the 
history  of  that  lady  in  the  next  box,  who  is  so  handsome,  and 


ON    BEING    FOUND    OUT  291 

whom  they  admire  so.  Ah  me  !  what  woukl  life  be  if  we  were  all 
found  out,  and  punished  for  all  our  faults  1  Jack  Ketch  would  be 
in  permanence ;  and  then  who  would  hang  Jack  Ketcli  1 

They  talk  of  murderers  being  pretty  certainly  found  out. 
Psha !  I  have  heard  an  authority  awfully  competent  vow  and 
declare  that  scores  and  hundreds  of  murders  are  committed,  and 
nobody  is  the  Aviser.  That  terrible  man  mentioned  one  or  two 
ways  of  committing  murder,  which  he  maintained  were  quite 
common,  and  were  scarcely  ever  found  out.  A  man,  for  instance, 
conies  home  to  his  wife,  and  .  .  .  but  I  pause — I  know  that  this 
Magazine  *  has  a  verj^  laru,e  circulation.  Hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  thousands — Avhy  not  say  a  million  of  people  at  once? — well, 
say  a  million  read  it.  And  amongst  these  countless  readers,  I 
might  be  teaching  some  monster  how  to  make  away  with  his  wife 
without  being  found  out,  some  fiend  of  a  woman  how  to  destroy 
her  dear  husband.  I  will  not  then  tell  this  easy  and  simple  way 
of  murder,  as  communicated  to  me  by  a  most  respectable  party  in 
the  confidence  of  private  intercourse.  Suppose  some  gentle  reader 
were  to  try  this  most  simple  and  easy  receipt — it  seems  to  me 
almost  infallible — and  come  to  grief  in  consequence,  and  be  found 
out  and  hanged  ?  ShoiUd  I  ever  pardon  myself  for  having  been 
the  means  of  doing  injury  to  a  single  one  of  our  esteemed  sub- 
scribers? The  prescription  whei"eof  I  speak — that  is  to  say,  whereof 
I  don't  speak — shall  be  buried  in  this  bosom.  No,  I  am  a  humane 
man.  I  am  not  one  of  your  Bluelieards  to  go  and  say  to  my  wife, 
"  My  dear  !  I  am  going  away  for  a  few  days  to  Brighton.  Here 
are  all  the  keys  of  the  house.  You  may  open  every  door  and 
closet,  except  the  one  at  the  end  of  the  oak-room  opposite  the  fire- 
place, with  the  little  bronze  Shakspeare  on  the  mantelpiece  (or 
what  not)."  I  don't  say  this  to  a  woman — unless,  to  be  sure,  I 
want  to  get  rid  of  her — because,  after  such  a  caution,  I  know 
she'll  peep  into  the  closet.  I  say  nothing  about  the  closet  at  all. 
I  keep  the  key  in  my  pocket,  and  a  being  whom  I  love,  but  who, 
as  I  know,  has  many  weaknesses,  out  of  harm's  w^ay.  You  toss 
up  your  head,  dear  angel,  drub  on  the  ground  with  your  lovely 
little  feet,  on  the  table  with  your  sweet  rosy  fingers,  and  cry,  "Oh, 
sneerer !  You  don't  know  the  depth  of  woman's  feeling,  the  lofty 
scorn  of  all  deceit,  the  entire  absence  of  mean  curiosity  in  the  sex, 
or  never,  never  would  you  libel  us  so  ! "  Ah,  Delia  !  dear  dear 
Delia !  It  is  because  I  fancy  I  do  know  something  about  you 
(not  all,  mind — no,  no  ;  no  man  knows  that) — Ah,  my  bride,  my 
ringdove,  my  rose,  my  poppet — choose,  in  fact,  whatever  name 
you  like — bulbul  of  my  grove,  fountain  of  my  desert,  sunshine  of 
*  The  Curiihill  Magazine. 


292  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

my  darkling  life,  and  joy  of  my  dungeoned  existence,  it  is  because 
I  do  know  a  little  about  you  that  I  conclude  to  say  nothing  of 
that  private  closet,  and  keep  my  key  in  my  pocket.  You  take 
away  that  closet-key  then,  and  the  house-key.  You  lock  Delia 
in.  You  keep  her  out  of  harm's  way  and  gadding,  and  so  she 
never  can  be  found  out. 

And  yet  by  little  strange  accidents  and  coincidences  how  we  are 
being  found  out  every  day.  You  remember  that  old  story  of  the 
Abbi^  Kakatoes,  who  told  the  company  at  supper  one  night  how 
the  first  confession  he  ever  received  was — from  a  murderer  let  us 
say.  Presently  enters  to  supper  the  Marquis  de  Croquemitaine. 
"  Palsambleu,  abbd  !  "  says  the  brilliant  Marquis,  taking  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  "  are  you  here  1  Gentlemen  and  ladies  !  I  was  the  abbd's 
first  penitent,  and  I  made  him  a  confession  which  I  promise  you 
astonished  him." 

To  be  sure  how  queerly  things  are  found  out !  Here  is  an 
instance.  Only  the  other  day  I  was  writing  in  these  Roundabout 
Papers  about  a  certain  man,  whom  I  facetiously  called  Baggs,  and 
who  had  abused  me  to  my  friends,  wlio  of  course  told  me.  Shortly 
after  that  paper  was  published  another  friend — Sacks  let  us  call 
hira — scowls  fiercely  at  me  as  I  am  sitting  in  perfect  good-humour 
at  the  club,  and  passes  on  without  speaking.  A  cut.  A  quarrel. 
Sacks  thinks  it  is  about  him  that  I  was  writing :  whereas,  upon 
my  honour  and  conscience,  I  never  had  him  once  in  my  mind,  and 
was  pointing  my  moral  from  quite  another  man.  But  don't  you 
see,  by  this  wrath  of  tlie  guilty-conscienced  Sacks,  that  he  had  been 
abusing  me  too?  He  has  owned  himself  guilty,  never  having 
been  accused.  He  has  winced  when  nobody  thought  of  hitting 
hira.  I  did  but  put  the  cap  out,  and  madly  butting  and  chafing, 
behold  my  friend  rushes  to  put  his  head  into  it !  Never  mind, 
Sacks,  you  are  found  out ;  but  I  bear  you  no  malice,  my  man. 

And  yet  to  be  found  out,  I  know  from  my  own  experience, 
must  be  painful  and  odious,  and  cruelly  mortifying  to  the  inward 
vanity.  Suppose  I  am  a  poltroon,  let  us  say.  With  fierce 
moustache,  loud  talk,  plentiful  oaths,  and  an  immense  stick,  I  keep 
up  nevertheless  a  character  for  courage.  I  swear  fearfully  at  cab- 
men and  women ;  brandish  my  bludgeon,  and  perhaps  knock  down 
a  little  man  or  two  with  it :  brag  of  the  images  which  I  break  at 
the  shooting-gallery,  and  pass  amongst  my  friends  for  a  whiskery 
fire-eater,  afraid  of  neither  man  nor  dragon.  Ah  me !  Suppose 
some  brisk  little  chap  steps  up  and  gives  me  a  caning  in  St.  James's 
Street,  with  all  tlie  heads  of  my  friends  looking  out  of  all  the  club 
windows.  My  reputation  is  gone.  I  frighten  no  man  more.  My 
nose  is  pulled   by  whipper-snappers,  who  jump  up  on  a  chair  ty 


ON    BEING    FOUND    OUT  293 

reach  it,  I  am  found  out.  And  in  the  days  of  my  triumphs, 
wlien  people  were  yet  afraid  of  me,  and  were  taken  in  by  my 
swagger,  I  always  knew  that  I  was  a  lily-liver,  and  expected  that  I 
should  be  found  out  some  day. 

That  certainty  of  being  found  out  must  haunt  and  depress 
many  a  bold  braggadocio  spirit.  Let  us  say  it  is  a  clergyman,  who 
can  pump  copious  floods  of  tears  out  of  his  own  eyes  and  those 
of  his  audience.  He  thinks  to  himself,  "  I  am  but  a  X't"""' 
swindling  chattering  rogue.  My  bills  are  unpaid.  I  have  jilted 
several  women  whom  I  have  promised  to  marry.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  believe  what  I  preach,  and  I  know  I  have  stolen  the 
very  sermon  over  which  I  have  been  snivelling.  Have  they  found 
me  out  ? "  says  he,  as  his  head  drops  down  on  the  cushion. 

Then  your  writer,  poet,  historian,  novelist,  or  what  not  1  The 
Beacon  says  that  "Jones's  work  is  one  of  the  first  order."  The 
Lamp  declares  that  "  Jones's  tragedy  sui-passes  every  work  since 
the  days  of  Him  of  Avon."  The  Comet  asserts  that  "  J.'s  'Life  of 
Goody  Two-Shoes '  is  a  KTr^ia  h  det,  a  noble  and  enduring  monu- 
ment to  the  fame  of  that  admirable  Englishwoman,"  and  so  forth. 
But  then  Jones  knows  that  he  has  lent  the  critic  of  the  Beacon 
five  pounds ;  that  his  publisher  has  a  half-share  in  the  Lamj^ ;  and 
that  the  Comet  comes  repeatedly  to  dine  with  him.  It  is  all  very 
well.  Jones  is  immortal  until  he  is  found  out ;  and  then  down 
comes  the  extinguisher,  and  the  immortal  is  dead  and  buried.  The 
idea  {dies  tree  .')  of  discovery  must  haunt  many  a  man,  and  make 
him  uneasy,  as  the  trumpets  are  puffing  in  his  triumph.  Brown, 
who  has  a  higher  place  than  he  deserves,  cowers  before  Smith,  who 
has  found  him  out.  What  is  a  chorus  of  critics  shouting  "  Bravo  "  1 
— a  public  clapping  hands  and  flinging  garlands  ]  Brown  knows 
that  Smith  has  found  him  out.  Puff",  trumpets  !  Wave,  banners  ! 
Huzza,  boys,  for  the  immortal  Brown!  "This  is  all  very  well," 
B.  thinks' (bowing  the  while,  smihng,  laying  his  hand  to  his  heart); 
"  but  there  stands  Smith  at  the  window :  he  has  measured  me ; 
and  some  day  the  others  will  find  me  out  too."  It  is  a  very  curious 
sensation  to  sit  by  a  man  Avho  has  found  you  out,  and  who  you 
know  has  found  you  out ;  or  vice  versd,  to  sit  with  a  man  whom 
l/ou  have  found  out.  His  talent  ?  Bah  !  His  A'irtue  1  We  know 
a  little  story  or  two  about  his  virtue,  and  he  knows  we  know  it. 
We  are  thinking  over  friend  Robinson's  antecedents,  as  we  grin, 
bow,  and  talk ;  and  we  are  both  humbugs  together.  Robinson  a 
good  fellow,  is  he  1  You  know  how  he  behaved  to  Hicks  1  A 
good-natured  man,  is  he  1  Pray  do  you  remember  that  little  story 
of  Mrs.  Robinson's  black  eye  1  How  men  have  to  work,  to  talk,  to 
smile,  to  go  to  bed,  and  try  to  sleeji,  with  this  dread  of  being  foun4 


294  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

out  on  their  consciences  !  Bardolph,  who  has  robbed  a  church,  and 
Nyni,  who  has  taken  a  purse,  go  to  their  usual  haunts,  and  smoke 
tlieir  pipes  with  their  companions.  Mr.  Detective  BuUseye  appears, 
and  says,  "  Oli,  Bardolph,  I  want  you  about  that  there  pyx  busi- 
ness ! "  Mr.  Bardoli)h  knocks  the  aslies  out  of  his  pipe,  puts  out 
Ins  hands  to  the  little  steel  cuffs,  and  walks  away  quite  meekly. 
He  is  found  out.  He  must  go.  "  Good-bye,  Doll  Tearsheet ! 
Good-bye,  Mrs.  Quickly,  ma'am  !  "  The  other  gentlemen  and  ladies 
de  la  soclete  look  on  and  exchange  mute  adieux  with  the  departing 
friends.  And  an  assured  time  will  come  when  the  other  gentle- 
men iind  ladies  will  be  found  out  too. 

What  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  provision  of  nature  it  has  been 
that,  for  the  most  part,  our  womankind  are  not  endowed  with  the 
foculty  of  finding  us  out !  They  don't  doubt,  and  probe,  and  weigh, 
and  take  your  measure.  Lay  down  this  paper,  my  benevolent 
friend  and  reader,  go  into  your  drawing-room  now,  and  utter  a  joke 
ever  so  old,  and  I  wager  sixpence  the  ladies  there  will  all  begin  to 
laugh.  Go  to  Brown's  house,  and  tell  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  young 
ladies  what  you  tliink  of  him,  and  see  what  a  welcome  you  will  get ! 
In  like  manner,  let  him  come  to  your  liouse,  and  tell  youi'  good 
lady  his  candid  opinion  of  you,  and  fancy  hoAV  she  will  receive  him  ! 
Would  you  have  your  wife  and  (;hildren  know  you  exactly  for  what 
you  are,  and  esteem  you  precisely  at  your  worth  ?  If  so,  my  friend, 
you  will  live  in  a  dreary  house,  and  you  will  have  but  a  chilly  fire- 
side. Do  you  suppose  the  people  round  it  don't  see  your  homely 
face  as  under  a  glamoin-,  and,  as  it  were,  with  a  halo  of  love  round 
it?  You  don't  fancy  you  are,  as  you  seem  to  them?  No  such 
thing,  my  man.  Put  away  that  monstrous  conceit,  and  be  thankful 
that  they  have  not  found  you  out. 


ON  A   HUNDRED    YEARS  HENCE 


WHERE  have  I  just  read  of  a  game  played  at  a  country 
house'?  The  party  assembles  louud  a  table  with  pens, 
ink,  and  paper.  Some  one  narrates  a  tale  containing  more 
f)r  less  incidents  and  personages.  Each  person  of  the  company  then 
writes  down,  to  the  best  of  his  memory  ami  ability,  the  anecdote 
just  narrated,  and  finally  the  jiapers  are  to  be  read  out.  I  do  not 
say  I  should  like  to  i)lay  often  at  this  game,  which  might  possibly 
be  a  tedious  and  lengthy  pastime,  not  by  any  means  so  amusing  as 
smoking  a  cigar  in  the  conservatory  ;  or  even  listening  to  the  young 
ladies  playing  their  piano-pieces ;  or  to  Hobbs  and  Nobbs  lingering 
round  tlie  bottle  and  talking  over  the  morning's  run  with  the 
hovmds ;  but  surely  it  is  a  moral  and  ingenious  sport.  They  say 
the  variety  of  narratives  is  often  very  odd  and  anmsing.  The 
original  story  becomes  so  changed  and  distorted  that  at  the  end  of 
all  the  statements  you  are  jmzzled  to  know  where  the  truth  is  at 
all.  As  time  is  of  small  importance  to  the  cheerful  persons  engaged 
in  this  sport,  perhaps  a  good  way  of  ])laying  it  woidd  be  to  spread 
it  over  a  couple  of  years.  Let  the  peojde  who  ])layed  the  game  in 
'60  all  meet  and  play  it  once  more  in  '61,  and  each  write  liis  story 
over  again.  Then  bring  out  your  original  and  compare  notes.  Not 
only  will  the  stories  differ  from  each  other,  but  the  writers  Avill  pro- 
bably differ  from  themselves.  In  the  course  of  the  year  the  incidents 
will  grow  or  will  dwindle  strangely.  The  least  authentic  of  the 
statements  will  be  so  lively  or  so  malicious,  or  so  neatly  put,  that 
it  will  appear  most  like  the  truth.  I  like  these  tales  and  sportive 
exercises.  I  had  begun  a  little  print  collection  once.  I  had  Addison 
in  his  nightgown  in  bed  at  Holland  House,  requesting  young  Lord 
Warwick  to  remark  how  a  Christian  should  die.  I  had  Cambronne 
clutching  his  cocked-hat,  and  uttering  the  immortal  "La  Garde 
meurt  et  ne  se  rend  pas."  I  had  the  Veniieur  going  down,  and  all 
tlie  crew  hurraying  like  madmen.  I  had  Alfred  toasting  the  muthn  ; 
Ourtius  (Hnydon)  jumping  into  the  gulf;  with  extracts  from  Napo- 
leon's bulletins,  and  a  tine  authentic  ])ortrait  of  r>;iron  Munchausen. 
What  man  wdio  has  been  before  tlie  public  at  all  has  not  heard 


296-  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

similar  wonderful  anecdotes  regarding  himself  and  his  own  history  1 
In  these  humble  essaykins  I  have  taken  leave  to  egotise.  I  cry 
out  about  the  shoes  which  pinch  me,  and,  as  I  fancy,  more  naturally 
and  pathetically  than  if  my  neighbour's  corns  were  trodden  under 
foot.  I  prattle  about  the  dish  which  I  love,  the  wine  which  I  like, 
the  talk  I  heard  yesterday — about  Brown's  absurd  airs — Jones's 
ridiculous  elation  when  he  thinks  he  has  caught  me  in  a  blunder 
(a  part  of  tlie  fun,  you  see,  is  that  Jones  will  read  this,  and  will 
perfectly  well  know  that  I  mean  him,  and  that  we  shall  meet  and 
grin  at  each  other  with  entire  politeness).  This  is  not  the  highest 
kind  of  speculation,  I  confess,  but  it  is  a  gossip  which  amuses  some 
folks.  A  brisk  and  honest  sinall-beer,  will  refresh  those  who  do 
not  care  for  the  frothy  outpourings  of  heavier  taps.  A  two  of  clubs 
may  be  a  good  handy  little  card  sometimes,  and  able  to  tackle  a 
king  of  diamonds,  if  it  is  a  little  trump.  Some  philosophers  get 
their  wisdom  with  deep  thought,  and  out  of  ponderous  libraries ; 
I  pick  up  my  small  crumbs  of  cogitation  at  a  dinner-table ;  or 
from  Mrs.  Mary  and  Miss  Louisa,  as  they  are  prattling  over  their 
five-o'clock  tea. 

Well,  yesterday  at  dinner,  Jucundus  was  good  enough  to  tell 
me  a  story  about  myself,  which  he  had  heard  from  a  lady  of  his 
acquaintance,  to  whom  I  send  my  best  compliments.  The  tale  is 
this.  At  nine  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  31st  of  November  last, 
just  before  sunset,  I  was  seen  leaving  No.  96  Abbey  Road,  St. 
John's  Wood,  leading  two  little  children  by  the  hand,  one  of  them 
in  a  nankeen  pelisse,  and  the  other  having  a  mole  on  the  third 
finger  of  his  left  hand  (she  thinks  it  was  tiie  third  finger,  but  is 
quite  sure  it  was  the  left  hand).  Thence  I  walked  with  them  to 
Charles  Borouglibridge's,  pork  and  sausage  man,  No.  29  Upper 
Theresa  Road.  Here,  whilst  I  left  the  little  girl  innocently  eating 
a  polony  in  the  front  shop,  I  and  Boroughbridge  retired  with  the 
boy  into  the  back  parlour,  where  Llrs.  Boroughbridge  was  playing 
cribbage.  She  put  up  the  cards  and  boxes,  took  out  a  chopper  and 
a  napkin,  and  we  cut  the  little  boy's  little  throat  (which  he  bore 
with  great  pluck  and  resolution),  and  made  him  into  sausage-meat 
by  tlie  aid  of  Purkis's  excellent  sausage-machine.  The  little  girl  at 
first  could  not  understand  her  brother's  absence,  but,  under  the 
pretence  of  taking  her  to  see  Mr.  Fechter  in  Hamlet,  I  led  her 
down  to  the  New  River  at  Sadler's  Wells,  where  a  body  of  a  child 
in  a  nankeen  pelisse  was  subsequently  found,  and  has  never  been 
recognised  to  the  present  day.  And  this  Mrs.  Lynx  can  aver, 
because  she  saw  the  wliole  transaction  with  her  own  eyes,  as  she 
told  Mr.  Jucundus. 

I  liave  altered  the  little  details  of  the  anecdote  somewhat.     But 


ON    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    HENCE  297 

this  story  is,  I  vow  and  declare,  as  true  as  Mrs.  Lynx's.  Gracious 
goodness!  how  do  lies  begin'?  What  are  the  averages  of  lying] 
Is  the  same  amount  of  lies  told  about  every  man,  and  do  we  pretty 
much  all  tell  the  same  amount  of  lies  1  Is  the  average  greater  in 
Ireland  than  in  Scotland,  or  vice  wj'sa— amoug  women  than  among 
men  1  Is  this  a  lie  I  am  telling  now  1  If  I  am  talking  about  you, 
the  odds  are,  perhaps,  that  it  is.  I  look  back  at  some  which  have 
been  told  about  me,  and  speculate  on  them  witii  thanks  and  wonder. 
Dear  friends  have  told  them  of  me,  have  told  them  to  me  of  myself. 
Have  they  not  to  and  of  you,  dear  friend  1  A  friend  of  mine  was 
dining  at  a  large  dinner  of  clergymen,  and  a  story,  as  true  as  the 
sausage  story  above  given,  was  told  regarding  me,  by  one  of  those 
reverend  divines  in  whose  frocks  sit  some  anile  chatterboxes,  as 
any  man  who  knows  this  world  knows.  They  take  the  privilege  of 
their  gown.  They  cabal,  and  tattle,  and  hiss,  and  cackle  commina- 
tions  under  their  breath.  I  say  the  old  women  of  the  otlier  sex  are 
not  more  talkative  or  more  mischievous  than  some  of  these.  "  Such 
a  man  ought  not  to  be  spoken  to,"  says  Gobemouche,  narrating  the 
story — and  such  a  story!  "And  I  am  surjjrised  he  is  admitted 
into  society  at  all."  Yes,  dear  Gobemouche,  but  the  story  wasn't 
true ;  and  I  had  no  more  done  the  wicked  deed  in  cpiestion  than  I 
had  run  away  with  the  Queen  of  Slieba. 

I  have  always  longed  to  know  what  that  story  was  (or  what 
collection  of  histories),  Avhich  a  lady  had  in  her  mind  to  whom  a 
servant  of  mine  applied  for  a  i)lace,  when  I  was  breaking  up  my 
establishment  once,  and  going  abroad.  Brown  went  with  a  very 
good  character  from  us,  which,  indeed,  she  fully  deserved  after 
several  years'  faithful  service.  But  when  Mrs.  Jones  read  the 
name  of  the  person  out  of  whose  employment  Brown  came,  "  That 
is  quite  sufficient,"  says  Mrs.  Jones.  "  You  may  go.  I  will  never 
take  a  servant  out  of  that  house."  Ah,  Mrs.  Jones,  how  I  should 
like  to  know  what  that  crime  was,  or  what  that  series  of  villanies, 
which  made  you  determine  never  to  take  a  servant  out  of  my  house. 
Do  you  believe  in  the  story  of  the  little  boy  and  the  sausages'? 
Have  you  swallowed  that  little  minced  infant '?  Have  you  devoured 
that  young  Polonius  1  Upon  my  word  you  have  maw  enough.  "We 
somehow  greedily  gobble  down  all  stories  in  which  the  characters 
of  our  friends  are  chopped  up,  and  believe  Avrong  of  them  without 
inquiry.  In  a  late  serial  work  written  by  this  hand,  I  remember 
making  some  pathetic  remarks  about  our  projjcnsity  to  believe  ill 
of  our  neighbours — and  I  remend)er  the  remarks,  not  because  they 
were  valuable,  or  novel,  or  ingenious,  but  because,  within  three 
days  after  they  had  appeared  in  print,  the  moralist  avIio  Avidtc 
them,  walking  home  with  a  friend,  heard  a  story  about  another 


298  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

friend,  which  story  he  straightway  believed,  and  which  story  was 
s(;arcely  more  true  tliau  that  sausage  fable  which  is  here  set  down. 
0  mea  cul2:>a,  mea  maxima  culj^a  I  But  though  the  preacher 
trips,  shall  not  the  doctrine  be  good?  Yea,  brethren!  Here  be 
the  rods.  Look  you,  here  are  the  scourges.  Choose  me  a  nice 
long,  swishing,  buddy  one,  light  and  well  poised  in  the  handle,  thick 
and  bushy  at  the  tail.  Pick  me  out  a  whip-cord  thong  with  some 
dainty  knots  in  it — and  now — we  all  deserve  it — whish,  whish, 
whish  !     Let  us  cut  into  each  other  all  round. 

A  favourite  liar  and  servant  of  mine  was  a  man  I  once  had  to 
drive  a  brougham.  He  never  came  to  my  house,  except  for  orders, 
and  once  when  he  helped  to  wait  at  dinner,  so  clumsily  that  it  was 
agreed  we  would  dispense  with  his  further  efforts.  The  (job) 
brougliam  horse  used  to  look  dreadfully  lean  and  tired,  and  the 
livery-stable  keeper  complained  that  we  worked  him  too  hard. 
Now,  it  turned  out  that  there  was  a  neighbouring  butcher's  lady 
who  liked  to  ride  iu  a  brougham ;  and  Tomkins  lent  her  ours, 
drove  lier  cheerfidly  to  Richmond  and  Putney,  and,  I  suppose,  took 
out  a  payment  in  mutton-chops.  We  gave  this  good  Tomkins  wine 
and  medicine  for  his  family  when  sick — we  supplied  him  with  little 
comforts  and  extras  which  need  not  now  be  remembered — and  tlie 
grateful  creature  rewarded  us  by  informing  some  of  our  tradesmen 
whom  he  honoured  with  his  custom,  "Mr.  Roundabout?  Lor' 
bless  you  !  I  carry  him  up  to  bed  drunk  every  night  in  the  week." 
He,  Tomkins,  being  a  man  of  seven  stone  weight  and  five  feet  high  ; 
whereas  his  employer  was — but  here  modesty  interferes,  and  I 
decline  to  enter  into  the  avoirdupois  question. 

Now,  what  was  Tomkins's  motive  for  the  utterance  and  dis- 
semination of  these  lies?  They  coidd  further  no  conceivable  end  or 
interest  of  his  own.  Had  they  been  true  stories,  Tomkins's  master 
would,  and  reasonably,  have  been  still  more  angry  than  at  the 
fables.  It  was  but  suicidal  slander  on  the  part  of  Tomkins — must 
come  to  a  discovery — must  end  in  a  punishment.  The  poor  wretch 
had  got  his  place  under,  as  it  turned  out,  a  fictitious  character. 
He  might  have  stayed  in  it,  for  of  course  Tomkins  had  a  wife  and 
poor  innocent  children.  He  might  have  had  bread,  beer,  bed, 
character,  coats,  coals.  He  might  have  nestled  in  our  little  island, 
comfortably  sheltered  from  the  storms  of  life ;  but  we  were  com- 
pelled to  cast  him  out,  and  send  him  driving,  lonely,  perishing, 
tossing,  starving,  to  sea — to  drown.  To  drown?  There  be  other 
modes  of  death  whereby  rogues  die.  Good-bye,  Tomkins.  And  so 
the  nightcap  is  put  on,  and  the  bolt  is  drawn  for  poor  T. 

Suppose  Ave  were  to  invite  volunteers  amongst  our  resp(>('ted 
readers   to  send  in  little  statements  of  the  lies  which  they  know 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE     299 

have  been  told  about  themselves :  what  a  lieap  of  correspondence, 
what  an  exaggeration  of  malignities,  -what  a  crackling  bonfire  of  in- 
cendiary falsehoods,  might  we  not  gather  together  !  And  a  lie  once 
set  going,  having  the  breath  of  life  breathed  into  it  by  the  father  of 
lying,  and  ordered  to  run  its  diabolical  little  course,  lives  with  a 
prodigious  vitality.  You  say,  "  Magna  est  Veritas  et  prsevalebit." 
Psha  !  Qreikt-li#s  are  as  great  as  great  truths,  and  prevail  constantly, 
and_daj^after  day.  Take  an  instance  or  two  out  of  my  own  little 
budget.  I  sit  near  a  gentleman  at  dinner,  and  the  conversation 
turns  upon  a  certain  anonymous  literary  performance  Avhicli  at  the 
time  is  amusing  the  town.  "  Oh,"  says  the  gentleman,  "  everybody 
knows  who  wrote  that  paper :  it  is  Momus's."  I  was  a  young 
author  at  the  time,  perhaps  proud  of  my  bantling :  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  I  say,  "  it  was  written  by  your  humble  servant."  "In- 
deed ! "  was  all  that  the  man  replied,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
turned  his  back,  and  talked  to  his  other  neighbour.  I  never  heard 
sarcastic  incredulity  more  finely  conveyed  than  by  that  "  indeed." 
"  Impudent  liar,"  the  gentleman's  face  said,  as  clear  as  face  could 
speak.  Where  was  Magna  Veritas,  and  how  did  she  prevail  then  ? 
She  lifted  up  her  voice,  she  made  her  appeal,  and  she  was  kicked 
out  of  court.  In  New  York  I  read  a  newspaper  criticism  one  day 
(by  an  exile  from  our  shores  who  has  taken  up  his  abode  in  the 
Western  Reiniblic),  commenting  upon  a  letter  of  mine  which  had 
appeared  in  a  contemporary  volume,  and  wherein  it  was  stated  that 
the  writer  was  a  lad  in  such  and  sucli  a  year,  and  in  i)oint  of  fact, 
I  M'as,  at  the  period  spoken  of,  nineteen  years  of  age.  "  Falsehood, 
Mr.  Roundabout,"  says  the  noble  critic  :  "  you  were  then  not  a  lad  ; 
you  were  then  six-and-twenty  years  of  age."  You  see  he  knew 
better  than  papa  and  mamma  and  parish  register.  It  was  easier  for 
him  to  think  and  say  I  lied,  on  a  twopenny  matter  connected  with 
my  own  affairs,  than  to  imagine  he  was  mistaken.  Years  ago,  in 
a  time  when  we  were  very  mad  wags,  Arcturus  and  myself  met  a 
gentleman  from  China  who  knew  the  language.  We  began  to  speak 
Chinese  against  him.  We  said  we  were  born  in  China.  We  were 
two  to  one.  We  spoke  the  mandarin  dialect  Avith  perfect  fluency. 
We  had  the  company  with  us ;  as  in  the  old  old  days,  the  squeak 
of  the  real  pig  w^as  voted  not  to  be  so  natural  as  the  squeak  of 
the  sham  pig.  0  Arcturus,  the  sham  pig  squeaks  in  our  streets 
now  to  the  api)lause  of  multitudes,  and  the  real  porker  grunts 
unheeded  in  his  sty  ! 

I  once  talked  for  some  little  time  with  an  amiable  lady  :  it  was 
for  the  first  time ;  and  I  saw  an  expression  of  surprise  on  her  kind 
face  which  said  as  plainly  as  face  could  say,  "  Sir,  (lo  you  know  that 
up  to  this  moment  I  have  had  a -certain  opinion  of  you,  and  that  I 


300  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

begin  to  think  I  have  been  mistaken  or  misled  1"  I  not  only  know 
tliat  she  hail  heard  evil  reports  of  me,  but  I  know  who  told  her — 
one  of  those  acute  fellows,  my  dear  brethren,  of  whom  we  spoke  in 
a  previous  sermon,  who  has  found  me  out — found  out  actions  which 
I  never  did,  found  out  thoughts  and  sayings  which  I  Jiever  spoke, 
and  judged  me  accordingly.  Ah,  my  lad  !  have  I  found  you  out? 
0,  visum  teneatis.  Perhaps  the  person  I  am  accusing  is  no  more 
guilty  than  I. 

How  comes  it  that  the  evil  which  men  say  spreads  so  widely  and 
lasts  so  long,  whilst  our  good  kind  words  don't  seem  somehow  to 
take  root  and  bear  blossom  1  Is  it  that  in  the  stony  hearts  of  man- 
kind these  pretty  flowers  can't  find  a  place  to  grow  1  Certain  it  is 
that  scandal  is  good  brisk  talk,  whereas  praise  of  one's  neighbour 
is  by  no  means  lively  hearing.  An  acquaintance  grilled,  scored, 
devilled,  and  served  with  mustard  and  cayenne  pepper  excites  the 
appetite ;  whereas  a  slice  of  cold  friend  with  currant  jelly  is  but  a 
sickly  unrelishing  meat. 

Now,  such  being  the  case,  my  dear  worthy  Mrs.  Candour,  in 
whom  I  know  there  are  a  hundred  good  and  generous  qualities  :  it 
being  perfectly  clear  that  tiae  good  things  wliich  we  say  of  our  neigh- 
bours don't  fructify,  but  somehow  perish  in  the  ground  where  they  are 
dropped,  whilst  the  evil  words  are  wafted  by  all  the  winds  of  scandal, 
take  root  in  all  soils,  and  flourish  amazingly — seeing,  I  say,  that 
this  conversation  does  not  give  us  a  fair  cliance,  suppose  we  give  up 
censoriousness  altogether,  and  decline  uttering  our  opinions  about 
Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson  (and  Mesdames  B.,  J.,  and  R.)  at 
all.  We  may  be  mistaken  about  every  one  of  them,  as,  please  good- 
ness, those  anecdote-mongers  against  whom  I  liave  uttered  my 
meek  protest  have  been  mistaken  about  me.  We  need  not  go  to 
the  extent  of  saying  tliat  Mrs.  Manning  was  an  amiable  creature 
much  misunderstood ;  and  Jack  Thurtell  a  gallant  unfortunate 
fellow,  not  near  so  black  as  he  was  painted  ;  but  we  will  try  and 
avoid  personalities  altogether  in  talk,  won't  we  1  We  will  range 
the  fields  of  science,  dear  madam,  and  communicate  to  each  other 
the  pleasing  results  of  our  studies.  We  will,  if  you  please,  examine 
the  infinitesimal  wonders  of  nature  through  the  microscope.  We 
will  cultivate  entomology.  We  will  sit  with  our  arms  round  each 
other's  waists  on  the  ^jo/is  asinor'um,  and  see  the  stream  of  mathe- 
matics flow  beneath.  AVe  will  take  refuge  in  cards,  and  play  at 
"  beggar  my  neighbour,"  not  abuse  my  neighbour.  We  will  go  to 
the  Zoological  Gardens  and  talk  freely  about  the  gorilla  and  his 
kindred,  but  not  talk  al)out  people  wlio  can  talk  in  their  turn. 
Suppose  we  praise  the  High  Cluirch  1  we  offend  the  Low  Church. 
The  Broad  Church  1  High  and  Low  ^re  both  off"ended.     What  do 


ON  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  HENCE     301 

you  think  of  Lord  Derbj^  as  a  politician  1  And  what  is  your  opinion 
of  Lord  Pahn(']-ston  1  If  you  i)lease,  will  you  play  me  those  lovely 
variations  of  "  Li  a  cottage  near  a  wood  "  1  It  is  a  charming  air 
(you  know  it  in  French,  I  suppose  1  Ah  I  te  dirai-je,  maman  ?) 
and  was  a  favourite  with  poor  Marie  Antoinette.  I  say  "poor," 
because  I  have  a  right  to  speak  with  pity  of  a  sovereign  who  was 
renowned  for  so  much  beauty  and  so  much  misfortune.  But  as  for 
giving  any  opinion  on  her  conduct,  saying  that  she  was  good  or  bad, 
or  indifferent,  goodness  forbid  !  We  have  agreed  we  will  not  be 
censorious.  Let  us  have  a  game  at  cards — at  ecarte,  if  you  please. 
You  deal.     I  ask  for  cards.     I  lead  tlie  deuce  of  clubs.   .  .  . 

What  ?  there  is  no  deuce  !  Deuce  take  it  !  What  1  People 
u'ill  go  on  talking  about  their  neighbours,  and  won't  have  their 
mouths  stopped  by  cards,  or  ever  so  much  microscopes  and 
aquariums?  Ah,  my  poor  dear  Mrs.  Candour,  I  agree  with  you. 
By  the  way,  did  you  ever  see  anything  like  Lady  Godiva  Trotter's 
dress  last  night  1  People  tvill  go  on  chattering,  although  we  hold 
our  tongues ;  and,  after  all,  my  good  soul,  what  will  their  scandal 
matter  a  hundred  years  hence  ? 


SMALL-BEER   CHRONICLE 


NOT  long  since,  at  a  certain  banquet,  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  sit  by  Doctor  Polymathesis,  who  knows  everything,  and 
who,  about  the  time  when  the  claret  made  its  a]jpearance, 
mentioned  that  old  dictum  of  the  grumbling  Oxford  don,  that  "All 
Claket  ivoidd  he  j)ort  if  it  could  !  "  Imbibing  a  bumper  of  one 
or  the  other  not  ungratefully,  I  thought  to  myself,  "  Here,  surely, 
Mr.  Roundabout,  is  a  good  text  for  one  of  your  reverence's  sermons." 
Let  us  apply  to  the  human  race,  dear  brethren,  what  is  here  said  of 
the  vintages  of  Portugal  and  Gascony,  and  we  shall  have  no  difficulty 
in  jierceiving  how  many  clarets  aspire  to  be  ports  in  their  way ; 
how  most  men  and  Avomen  of  our  acquaintance,  how  we  ourselves, 
are  Aquitainians  giving  ourselves  Lusitanian  airs  :  how  we  wish  to 
have  credit  for  being  stronger,  braver,  more  beautiful,  more  wortliy 
tlian  we  really  are. 

Nay,  the  beginning  of  tliis  hypocrisy — a  desire  to  excel,  a  desire 
to  be  hearty,  fruity,  generous,  strengtli-imparting — is  a  virtuous  and 
noble  ambition ;  and  it  is  most  difficult  for  a  man  in  his  own  case, 
or  his  neighbour's,  to  say  at  what  point  this  ambition  transgresses 
the  boundary  of  virtue,  and  be(;omes  vanity,  pretence,  and  self- 
seeking.  You  are  a  poor  man,  let  us  say,  showing  a  bold  face  to 
adverse  fortune,  and  wearing  a  confident  aspect.  Your  purse  is 
very  narrow,  but  you  owe  no  man  a  penny ;  your  means  are  scanty, 
but  your  wife's  gown  is  decent ;  your  old  coat  well  brushed ;  your 
children  at  a  good  school ;  you  grumble  to  no  one ;  ask  favours  of 
no  one ;  truckle  to  no  neighbours  on  account  of  their  superior  rank, 
or  (a  worse,  and  a  meaner  and  a  more  common  crime  still)  envy 
none  for  their  better  fortune.  To  all  outward  appearances  you  are 
as  well  to  do  as  your  neighbours,  wlio  have  thrice  your  income. 
There  may  be  in  this  case  some  little  mixture  of  pretension  in  your 
life  and  behaviour.  You  certainly  do  put  on  a  smiling  face  whilst 
fortune  is  pinching  you.  Your  wife  and  girls,  so  smart  and  neat  at 
evening  parties,  are  cutting,  patching,  and  cobbling  all  day  to  make 
both  ends  of  life's  haberdashery  meet.  You  give  a  friend  a  bottle 
pf  wine  on  occasion,  but  are  content  yourself  with  a  glass  of  whisky 


SMALL-BEER    CHRONICLE  303 

and-water.  You  avoid  a  cab,  saying  that  of  all  things  you  like  to 
walk  home  after  dinner  (which  you  know,  my  good  friend,  is  a  fib). 
I  grant  you  that  in  this  scheme  of  life  there  does  enter  ever  so  little 
hypocrisy ;  that  this  claret  is  loaded,  as  it  were  ;  but  your  desire  to 
2)ort.ify  yourself  is  amiable,  is  pardonable,  is  perhaps  honourable  : 
and  were  there  no  other  hypocrisies  than  yours  in  the  world  we 
should  be  a  set  of  worthy  fellows ;  and  sermonisers,  moralisers, 
satirisers  would  have  to  hold  their  tongues  and  go  to  some  other 
trade  to  get  a  living. 

But  you  know  you  vrill  step  over  that  boundary  line  of  virtue 
and  modesty,  into  the  district  where  humbug  and  vanity  begin,  and 
there  the  moraliser  catches  you  and  makes  an  example  of  you.  For 
instance,  in  a  certain  novel  in  another  place  my  friend  Mr.  Talbot 
Twysden  is  mentioned — a  man  whom  you  and  I  know  to  be  a 
wretched  ordinaire,  but  who  persists  in  treating  himself  as  if  he 
was  the  finest  '20  port.  In  our  Britain  there  are  hundreds  of  men 
like  him ;  for  ever  striving  to  swell  beyond  their  natural  size,  to 
strain  beyond  their  natural  strength,  to  step  beyond  their  natural 
stride.  Search,  search  within  your  own  Avaistcoats,  dear  brethren — 
you  know  in  your  hearts  which  of  your  ordinaire  qualities  you  woidd 
I)ass  off,  and  fain  consider  as  first-rate  port.  And  why  not  you  your- 
self, Mr.  Preacher?  says  the  congregation.  Dearly  beloved,  neither  in 
nor  out  of  this  pulpit  do  I  profess  to  be  bigger,  or  cleverer,  or  wiser, 
or  better  than  any  of  you.  A  short  while  since,  a  certain  Reviewer 
announced  that  I  gave  myself  great  pretensions  as  a  philosopher. 
I  a  philosopher  !  I  advance  pretensions  !  My  dear  Saturday  friend. 
And  you  ?  Don't  you  teach  everything  to  everybody  ?  and  punish 
the  naughty  boys  if  they  don't  learn  as  you  bid  them  1  You  teach 
politics  to  Lord  John  and  Mr.  Gladstone.  You  teach  poets  how  to 
write ;  painters,  how  to  paint ;  gentlemen,  manners ;  and  opera- 
dancers,  how  to  pirouette.  I  Avas  not  a  little  amused  of  late  by  an 
instance  of  the  modesty  of  our  Saturday  friend,  who,  more  Athenian 
than  the  Athenians,  and  a  jjvopos  of  a  Greek  book  by  a  Greek 
author,  sat  down  and  gravely  showed  the  Greek  gentleman  how  to 
write  his  own  language. 

No,  I  do  not,  as  far  as  I  know,  try  to  be  port  at  all ;  but  offer 
in  these  presents,  a  sound  genuine  ordinaire,  at  18s.  per  doz.  let  us 
say,  grown  on  my  own  hillside,  and  offered  de  hon  coeur  to  those 
who  will  sit  down  under  my  tonnelle,  and  have  a  half-hour's  drink 
and  gossip.  It  is  none  of  your  hot  porto,  my  friend.  I  know 
there  is  much  better  and  stronger  liquor  elsewhere.  Some  pro- 
nounce it  sour  ;  some  say  it  is  thin  ;  some  that  it  has  woefully  lost 
its  flavour.  This  may  or  may  not  be  true.  There  are  good  and 
bad  years ;   years   that   surprise  everybody ;    years  of  which  the 


304,  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

produce  is  small  and  bad,  or  rich  and  plentiful.  But  if  my  tap  is 
not  genuine  it  is  nauglit,  and  no  man  should  give  himself  the 
trouble  to  drink  it.  I  do  not  even  say  that  I  would  be  port  if  I 
could  ;  knowing  that  port  (by  which  I  would  imply  much  stronger, 
deeper,  richer,  and  more  durable  liquor  than  my  vineyard  can 
furnish)  is  not  relished  by  all  palates,  or  suitable  to  all  heads. 
We  will  assume  then,  dear  brother,  that  you  and  I  are  tolerably 
modest  people  ;  and,  ourselves  being  thus  out  of  the  question,  pro- 
ceed to  show  how  pretentious  our  neighbours  are,  and  how  very 
many  of  them  would  be  port  if  they  could. 

Have  you  never  seen  a  small  man  from  college  placed  amongst 
great  folk,  and  giving  himself  the  airs  of  a  man  of  fashion  1  He 
goes  back  to  his  common  room  with  fond  reminiscences  of  Ermine 
Castle  or  Strawberry  Hall.  He  writes  to  the  dear  Countess,  to  say 
that  dear  Lord  Lollypop  is  getting  on  very  well  at  Saint  Boniface, 
and  that  the  accident  which  he  met  v/ith  in  a  scuffle  with  an  inebri- 
ated bargeman  only  showed  his  spirit  and  honour,  and  will  not 
permanently  disfigure  his  Lordship's  nose.  He  gets  his  clothes  from 
dear  LoUypop's  London  tailor,  and  wears  a  mauve  or  magenta  tie 
when  he  rides  out  to  see  the  hounds.  A  love  of  fashionable 
people  is  a  weakness,  I  do  not  say  of  all,  but  of  some  tutors. 
Witness  that  Eton  tutor  t'other  day,  who  intimated  that  in  Corn- 
hill  we  could  not  understand  the  perfect  purity,  delicacy,  and 
refinement  of  those  genteel  families  who  sent  their  sons  to  Eton. 

0  usher,  mon  ami  I  Old  Sam  Johnson,  who,  too,  had  been  an 
usher  in  his '  early  life,  kept  a  little  of  that  weakness  always. 
Suppose  Goldsmith  had  knocked  him  up  at  three  in  the  morning 
and  proposed  a  boat  to  Greenwich,  as  Topham  Beauclerc  and  his 
friend  did,  would  he  have  said,  "What,  my  boy,  are  you  for  a 
frolic  1  Fm  with  you  !  "  and  gone  and  put  on  his  clothes  1  Rather 
he  would  have  pitched  poor  Goldsmith  downstairs.  He  would  have 
liked  to  be  port  if  he  could.  Of  course  we  wouldn't.  Our  opinion 
of  the  Portugal  grape  is  known.  It  grows  very  high,  and  is  very 
sour,  and  we  don't  go  for  that  kind  of  grape  at  all. 

"  I  was  walking  with  Mr.  Fox  " — and  sure  this  anecdote  comes 
very  pat  after  the  grapes — "  I  was  walking  with  Mr.  Fox  in  the 
Louvre,"  says  Benjamin  West  (ajmd  some  paper  I  have  just  been 
reading),  "  and  I  remarked  how  many  people  turned  round  to  look 
at  me.  This  shows  the  respect  of  the  French  for  the  fine  arts." 
This  is  a  curious  instance  of  a  very  small  claret  indeed,  which 
imagined  itself  to  be  port  of  the  strongest  body.  There  are  not 
many  instances  of  a  faith  so  deep,  so  simple,  so  satisfactory  as  this. 

1  have  met  many  who  would  like  to  be  port ;  but  with  few  of  the 
Gascon  sort,  who  absolutely  believed  they  ?vere  port.     George  III. 


SMALL-BEER    CHRONICLE  305 

believed  in  West's  port,  and  tliought  Reynolds's  overrated  stuff. 
"When  I  saw  West's  pictures  at  Philadelphia,  I  looked  at  them 
with  astonishment  and  aAve.  Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  your  head 
under  your  old  nightcap.  0  immortality  !  is  this  tlie  end  of  you  1 
Did  any  of  you,  my  dear  brethren,  ever  try  and  read  "  Blackmore's 
Poems,"  or  the  "  Epics  of  Baour-Lormian,"  or  the  "  Henriade,"  or — 
what  shall  we  say? — PoUok's  "Course  of  Time"?  They  were 
thouglit  to  be  more  lasting  than  brass  by  some  people,  and  where 
are  they  now  1  And  om-  masterpieces  of  literature — ovr  ports — 
that,  if  not  immortal,  at  any  rate  are  to  last  their  fifty,  tlieir 
hundred  years — oh,  sirs,  don't  you  think  a  very  small  cellar 
will  hold  them  1 

Those  poor  people  in  brass,  on  pedestals,  hectoring  about 
Trafalgar  Square  and  that  neiglibourhood,  don't  you  tlunk  many 
of  them — apart  even  from  the  ridiculous  execution — cut  rather  a 
ridiculous  figure,  and  that  we  are  too  eager  to  set  up  our  ordinaiie 
heroism  and  talent  for  i)ort  1  A  Duke  of  Wellington  or  two  I  will 
grant,  though  even  of  these  idols  a  moderate  supply  will  be 
sufficient.  Some  years  ago  a  famous  and  witty  French  critic  was 
in  London,  with  whom  I  walked  the  streets.  I  am  ashamed  to 
say  that  I  informed  him  (being  in  hopes  that  he  was  about  to  write 
some  papers  regarding  the  manners  and  customs  of  this  counti'v) 
that  all  the  statues  he  saw  represented  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
That  on  the  arch  o])posite  Apsley  House  ?  the  Duke  in  a  cloak, 
and  cocked-hat,  on  horseback.  That  behind  Apsley  House  in  an 
airy  fig-leaf  cos'tume'?  the  Dvdvc  again.  That  in  Cockspur  Street? 
the  Duke  with  a  pig-tail — and  so  on.  I  sliowed  him  an  army  of 
Dukes.  Tliere  are  many  bronze  heroes  who  after  a  few  years  look 
already  as  foolish,  awkward,  and  out  of  place  as  a  man,  say  at 
Shoolbred's  or  Swan  &  Edgar's.  For  example,  those  three  Grena- 
diers in  Pall  Mall,  wlio  have  been  up  only  a  few  months,  don't 
you  pity  those  unhappy  household  troops,  who  have  to  stand 
frowning  and  looking  fierce  there  ;  and  think  they  would  like  to 
step  down  and  go  to  barracks  ?  That  they  fought  very  bravely 
there  is  no  doubt ;  but  so  did  the  Russians  fight  very  bravely  ; 
and  the  French  fight  very  bravely  ;  and  so  did  Colonel  Jones  and 
the  99th,  and  Colonel  Brown  and  the  100th  ;  and  I  say  again  that 
ordinaire  should  not  give  itself  port  airs,  and  that  an  honest 
ordinaire  would  blush  to  be  found  swaggering  so.  I  am  sure  if 
you  could  consult  the  Duke  of  York,  who  is  impaled  on  his  column 
between  the  two  clubs,  and  ask  his  late  Royal  Highness  whether 
he  thought  he  ought  to  remain  there,  he  woidd  say  no.  A  brave 
worthy  man,  not  a  braggart  or  boaster,  to  be  put  u{)on  that  heroic 
perch  must  be  painful  to  him.     Lord  George  Beutinck,  I  suppose, 

20 


306  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

being  in  the  midst  of  the  family  park  iu  Cavendish  Square,  may 
conceive  that  he  has  a  right  to  remain  in  his  place.  But  look  at 
William  of  Cumberland,  with  his  hat  cocked  over  his  eye,  prancing 
behind  Lord  George  on  his  Roman-nosed  charger :  he,  depend  on  it, 
would  be  for  getting  off'  his  horse  if  he  had  the  permission.  He  did 
not  hesitate  about  trifles,  as  we  know ;  but  he  was  a  very  truth- 
telling  and  honourable  soldier ;  and  as  for  heroic  rank  and  statuesque 
dignity,  I  would  wager  a  dozen  of  '20  Port  against  a  bottle  of  pure 
and  sound  Bordeaux,  at  18s.  per  dozen  (bottles  included),  tliat  lie 
never  would  tliink  of  claiming  any  such  al)surd  distinction.  They 
have  got  a  statue  of  Thomas  Moore  at  Dublin,  I  hear.  Is  he  on 
horseback"?  Some  men  should  have,  say,  a  fifty  years'  lease  of 
glory.  After  a  while  some  gentlemen  now  in  brass  siiould  go  to 
the  melting  furnace,  and  reappear  in  some  other  gentleman's  shape. 
Lately  I  saw  that  Melville  column  rising  over  Edinburgh  ;  come, 
good  men  and  true,  don't  you  feel  a  little  awkward  and  uneasy 
when  you  walk  under  it  1  Who  was  this  to  stand  in  heroic  places  1 
and  is  yon  the  man  whom  Scotchmen  most  delight  to  honour?  I 
must  own  deferentially  that  there  is  a  tendency  in  North  Britain 
to  over-esteem  its  heroes.  Scotch  ale  is  very  good  and  strong,  but 
it  is  not  stronger  than  all  the  other  beer  in  the  world,  as  some 
Scottish  patriots  would  insist.  When  there  has  been  a  war,  and 
stout  old  Sandy  Sansculotte  returns  home  from  Lidia  or  the  Crimea, 
what  a  bagpiping,  shouting,  hurraying,  and  self-glorification  takes 
place  round  about  him  !  You  would  fancy,  to  liear  McOrator  after 
dinner,  that  the  Scotch  had  fought  all  the  battles,  killed  all  the 
Russians,  Indian  rebels,  or  what  not.  In  Cupar-Fife,  there's  a 
little  inn  called  the  "  Battle  of  AVaterloo,"  and  what  do  you  think 
the  sign  is  1  (I  speak  from  memory,  to  be  sure.)  "  The  Battle  of 
Waterloo  "  is  one  broad  Scotchman  laying  about  him  with  a  broad- 
sword. Yes,  yes,  my  dear  Mac,  you  ai'e  wise,  you  are  good,  you 
are  clever,  you  are  handsome,  you  are  brave,  you  are  rich,  &c.;  but 
so  is  Jones  over  the  border.  Scotcli  salmon  is  good,  but  there 
are  other  good  fish  in  the  sea.  I  once  heard  a  Scotchman  lecture 
on  poetry  in  London.  Of  course  tlie  pieces  he  selected  were  chiefly 
by  Scottish  authors,  and  Walter  Scott  was  his  favourite  poet.  I 
whispered  to  my  neighbour,  who  was  a  Scotchman  (by  the  way, 
the  audience  were  almost  all  Scotch,  and  the  room  was  All-Mac's 
— I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  really  couldn't  help 
it) — "  The  professor  has  said  the  best  poet  was  a  Scotchman :  I 
wager  that  he  will  say  the  worst  poet  was  a  Scotchman,  too." 
And  sure  enough  that  worst  poet,  when  he  made  his  appearance, 
was  a  Northern  Briton. 

And  as  we  are  talking  of  bragging,  and  I  am  on  my  travels, 


SMALL-BEER    CHRONICLE  307 

can  I  forget  one  mighty  republic — one — two  mighty  republic-s, 
where  people  are  notoriously  fond  of  passing  off  their  claret  foi 
portl  I  am  very  glad,  for  the  sake  of  a  kind  friend,  that  there  is 
a  great  and  influential  party  in  the  United,  and,  I  trust,  in  the 
Confederate  States,*  who  believe  that  Catawba  wine  is  better  than 
the  best  champagne.  Opposite  that  famous  old  White  House  at 
Washington,  wiiereof  I  .shall  ever  have  a  grateful  inemory,  they 
have  set  up  an  equestrian  statue  of  General  Jackson,  by  a  self- 
taught  American  artist  of  no  inconsiderable  genius  and  skill.  At 
an  evening  party  a  member  of  Congress  seized  me  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not  tliink  this  was  the  finest  equestrian 
statue  in  the  world  ?  How  was  I  to  deal  with  this  plain  question, 
put  to  me  in  a  corner?  I  was  bound  to  reply,  and  accordingly 
said  that  I  did  not  think  it  was  the  finest  statue  in  the  world. 
"  Well,  sir,"  says  the  member  of  Congress,  "  but  you  must  re- 
member that  Mr.  Isl had  never  seen  a  statue  when  he  made 

this  !  "     I  suggested  that  to  see  other  statues  might  do  Mr.  M ■ 

no  harm.  Nor  was  any  man  more  willing  to  own  his  defects,  or 
more  modest  regarding  his  merits,  than  tlie  sculptor  himself,  whom 
I  met  subsequently.  But  oh  !  what  a  charming  article  there  Avas 
in  a  Washington  paper  next  day  alwut  the  impertinence  of  criticism 
and  oft'ensive  tone  of  arrogance  which  Englishmen  adojjted  towai'ds 
men  and  works  of  genius  in  America  !  "  Who  was  this  man,  who  " 
&c.  &c.  1  The  Washington  writer  was  angry  because  I  would  not 
accept  this  American  claret  as  the  finest  jjort-wine  in  the  world. 
Ah  me  !  It  is  about  blood  and  not  wine  that  the  quarrel  now  is, 
and  who  shall  foretell  its  end  ? 

How  much  claret  tliat  would  be  port  if  it  could  is  handed 
about  in  every  society !  In  the  House  of  Commons  what  small- 
beer  orators  try  to  pass  for_  strong !  Stay  :  have  I  a  spite  against 
any  one?  It  is  a  fact  that  the  wife  of  the  Member  for  Bungay  has 
left  off  asking  me  and  Mrs.  Roundabout  to  her  evening-parties. 
Now  is  the  time  to  have  a  slap  at  him.  I  will  say  that  he  was 
always  overrated,  and  that  now  he  is  lamentably  falling  off  even 
from  what  he  has  been.  I  will  back  the  Member  for  Stoke  Poges 
against  him  ;  and  show  that  the  dashing  young  Member  fur  Islington 
is  a  far  sounder  man  than  either.  Have  I  any  little  literary  ani- 
mosities 1  Of  course  not.  Men  of  letters  never  have.  Otherwise, 
how  I  could  serve  out  a  competitor  here,  make  a  face  over  his 
works,  and  show  that  his  would-be  port  is  very  meagre  ordinaire 
indeed !  Nonsense,  man  !  Why  so  squeamish  1  Do  they  spare 
you  ?  Now  you  have  the  whip  iu  your  hand,  wont  you  lay  on  ? 
You  used  to  be  a  jiretty  whip  enough  as  a  young  man,  and  liked  it 

*  Written  in  July  1801. 


SOS  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

too.  Is  there  no  enemy  avIio  would  be  the  better  for  a  little 
thonging?  No.  I  have  militated  in  former  times,  not  without 
glory;  but  I  grow  peaceable  as  I  grow  old.  And  if  I  liave  a 
literary  enemy,  why,  he  will  probably  write  a  book  ere  long,  and 
then  it  will  be  his  turn,  and  my  favourite  review  will  be  down 
upon  him. 

My  brethren,  these  sermons  are  professedly  short ;  for  I  have 
that  opinion  of  my  dear  congregation,  which  leads  me  to  think  that 
were  I  to  preach  at  great  length  they  would  yawn,  stamp,  make 
noises,  and  perhaps  go  straightway  out  of  church ;  and  yet  with 
this  text  I  protest  I  could  go  on  for  hours.  What  multitudes  of 
men,  what  nuiltitudes  of  women,  my  dears,  pass  off  their  ordinaire 
for  port,  their  small  beer  for  strong !  In  literature,  in  politics,  in 
the  army,  the  navy,  the  church,  at  the  bar,  in  the  world,  what  an 
immense  quantity  of  cheap  liquor  is  made  to  do  service  for  better 
sorts!  Ask  Serjeant  Roland  his  opinion  of  Oliver  Q.C.  "Ordinaire, 
my  good  fellow,  ordinaire,  with  a  port-wine  label ! "  Ask  Oliver 
his  opinion  of  Roland.  "Never  was  a  man  so  overrated  by  the 
Avoi-ld  and  by  himself."  Ask  Tweedledumski  his  opinion  of 
Twcedledeestein's  performance.  "  A  quack,  my  tear  sir !  an 
ignoramus,  I  geef  you  my  vort.  He  gombose  an  opera !  He  is 
not  fit  to  make  dance  a  bear  !  "  Ask  Paddington  and  Buckmister, 
those  two  "  swells "  of  fashion,  what  they  think  of  each  other. 
They  are  notorious  ordinaire.  You  and  I  remember  when  they 
passed  for  very  small  wine,  and  now  how  high  and_  mighty  they 
have  become.  What  do  you  say  to  Tomkins's  sermons  1  Ordinaire 
trying  to  go  down  as  orthodox  port,  and  very  meagre  ordinaire  too ! 
To  Hopkins's  historical  works  ? — to  Pumkins's  poetry  ?  Ordinaire, 
ordinaire  again — thin,  feeble,  overrated  ;  and  so  down  the  whole 
list.  And  when  we  have  done  discussing  our  men  friends,  have  we 
not  all  the  women  1  Do  these  not  advance  absurd  pretensions  1 
Do  these  never  give  themselves  airs  1  With  feeble  brains,  don't 
they  often  set  up  to  be  esj^rits  forts  ?  Don't  they  pretend  to  be 
Avomen  of  fashion,  and  cut  their  betters  1  Don't  they  try  and  pass 
off  their  ordinary -looking  girls  as  beauties  of  the  first  order?  Every 
man  in  his  circle  knows  women  who  give  themselves  airs,  and  to 
whom  we  can  apply  the  port-wine  simile. 

Come,  my  friends.  Here  is  enough  of  ordinaire  and  port  for 
to-day.  My  bottle  has  run  out.  Will  anybody  have  any  more? 
Let  us  go  upstairs,  and  get  a  cup  of  tea  from  the  ladies. 


TWKKDLKDUMSKI    AND    TWKEDLEDEESTEIN. 


OGRES 


I  DARESAY  the  reader  has  remarked  that  the  upright  and 
independent  v(jwel,  wliich  stands  in  the  vo^yel  list  between  E 
and  0,  has  formed  tlie  subject  of  the  main  part  of  these  essays. 
How  does  that  vowel  feel  tliis  morning? — fresh,  good-humoured, 
and  lively?  The  Roundabout  lines,  which  fall  from  this  pen,  are 
correspondingly  brisk  and  cheerful.  Has  anything,  on  the  contrary, 
disagreed  with  the  vowel?  Has  its  rest  been  disturbed,  or  was 
yesterday's  dinner  too  good,  or  yesterday's  wine  not  good  enough  ? 
Under  such  circumstances,  a  darkling  misanthropic  tinge,  no  doubt, 
is  cast  upon  the  paper.  The  jokes,  if  attemitted,  are  elaborate  and 
dreary.  The  bitter  temper  breaks  out.  Tliat  sneering  manner  is 
adopted,  which  you  know,  and  wliicli  exhibits  itself  so  especially 
when  the  writer  is  speaking  about  women.  A  moody  carelessness 
comes  over  him.  He  sees  no  good  in  any  body  or  thing :  and  treats 
gentlemen,  ladies,  history,  and  tilings  in  general,  with  a  like  gloouiy 
flippancy.  Agreed.  "When  the  vowel  in  question  is  in  that  mood, 
if  you  like  airy  gaiety  and  tender  gushing  benevolence — if  you  want 
to  be  satisfied  with  yourself  and  the  rest  of  your  fellow-beings  ;  I 
recommend  you,  my  dear  creature,  to  go  to  some  other  shop  iu 
Cornhill,  or  turn  to  some  other  article.  There  are  moods  in  the 
mind  of  the  vowel  of  which  we  are  speaking,  when  it  is  ill-conditioned 
and  captious.  Who  always  keeps  good  health  and  good  humour  ? 
Do  not  philosophers  grumble?  Are  not  sages  sometimes  out  of 
temper?  and  do  not  angel-women  go  off  in  tantrums?  To-day  my 
mood  is  dark.     I  scowl  as  I  dip  my  pen  in  the  inkstand. 

Here  is  the  day  come  round — for  everything  here  is  done  Mitli 
the  utmost  regularity  : — intellectual  labour,  sixteen  hours ;  meals, 
thirty-two  mimites ;  exercise,  a  hundred  and  forty-eight  minutes ; 
conversation  with  the  family,  chiefly  literary,  and  about  the  house- 
keeping, one  hour  and  four  minutes ;  sleej),  three  hours  and  fifteen 
minutes  (at  the  end  of  the  month,  when  the  Magazine  is  comi)lete, 
I  own  I  take  eight  minutes  more)  ;  and  the  rest  for  the  toilette 
and  the  world.  Well,  I  say,  the  Roundabout  Paper  Day  being 
come,  and  the  subject  long  since  settled  in  my  mind,  an  excellent 


310  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

subject — a  most  telling,  lively,  and  popular  suliject — T  go  to 
breakfast  determined  to  finisli  that  meal  in  9|  minutes,  as  usual, 
and  then  retire  to  my  desk  and  work,  wlien — oh,  provoking ! — here 
in  tlie  paper  is  the  very  subject  treated  on  which  I  was  going  to 
Avrite  !  Yesterday  anotlier  paper  which  I  saw  treated  it — and  of 
course,  as  I  need  not  tell  you,  spoiled  it.  Last  Saturday,  another 
paper  had  an  article  on  the  subject ;  perhaps  you  may  guess  what 
it  was — but  I  won't  tell  you.  Only  tliis  is  true,  my  favourite 
subject,  which  was  about  to  make  the  best  paper  we  have  had  for 
a  long  time ;  my  bird,  my  game  that  I  was  going  to  shoot  and 
serve  up  with  such  a  delicate  sauce,  has  been  found  by  other 
sportsmen ;  and  jiop,  pop,  pop,  a  half-dozen  of  guns  have  banged 
at  it,  mangled  it,  and  brouglit  it  down. 

"And  can't  you  take  some  other  text?"  say  you.  All  this  is 
mighty  well.  But  if  you  have  set  your  heart  on  a  certain  dish  for 
(liinier,  be  it  cold  boiled  veal,  or  what  you  will,  and  they  bring  you 
turtle  and  venison,  don't  you  feel  disappointed?  During  your 
walk  you  have  been  making  up  your  mind  that  that  cold  meat, 
with  moderation  and  a  pickle,  will  be  a  very  sufficient  dinner :  you 
have  accustomed  your  thoughts  to  it ;  and  here,  in  place  of  it,  is  a 
turkey,  surrounded  by  coarse  sausages,  or  a  reeking  pigeon-pie,  or 
a  fulsome  roast  pig.  I  liave  known  many  a  good  and  kind  man 
made  furiously  angry  by  such  a  contretemps.  I  have  known  him 
lose  his  temper,  call  his  wife  and  servants  names,  and  a  whole 
household  made  miserable.  If,  then,  as  is  notoriously  the  case,  it 
is  too  dangerous  to  baulk  a  man  about  his  dinner,  how  much  more 
about  his  article !  I  came  to  my  meal  with  an  ogre-like  appetite 
and  gusto.  Fee,  faw,  fum !  Wife,  where  is  that  tender  little 
princekin  1  Have  you  trussed  him,  and  did  you  stuff  him  nicely, 
and  have  you  taken  care  to  baste  him,  and  do  him,  not  too  brown, 
as  I  told  you  ?  Quick !  I  am  hungry !  I  begin  to  whet  my 
knife,  to  roll  my  eyes  about,  and  roar  and  clap  my  huge  chest  like 
a  gorilla ;  and  then  my  poor  Ogrina  has  to  tell  me  that  the  little 
princes  have  all  run  away,  whilst  she  was  in  the  kitchen  making 
the  paste  to  bake  them  in  !  I  pause  in  the  description.  I  won't 
condescend  to  report  the  bad  language,  Avhich  you  know  must 
ensue,  when  an  ogre,  whose  mind  is  ill-regulated,  and  whose  habits 
of  self-indulgence  are  notorious,  finds  himself  disappointed  of  his 
greedy  hopes.  What  treatment  of  his  wife,  what  abuse  and  brutal 
behaviour  to  his  cliildren,  who,  though  ogrillons,  are  children ! 
My  dears,  you  may  fancy,  and  need  not  ask  my  delicate  pen  to 
describe,  the  language  and  behaviour  of  a  vulgar,  coarse,  greedy,  laii'^'e 
man  with  an  immense  moufli  and  teeth,  which  are  too  frequently 
f  inj)loyed  in  the  gobbling  and  cruucliing  of  raw  man's  ipcat. 


OGRES  311 

And  in  this  circuitous  way  you  see  I  have  reached  my  present 
subject,  which  is,  Ogres.  You  fancy  they  are  dead  or  only 
fictitious  characters — mytliical  representatives  of  strength,  cruelty, 
stupidity,  and  lust  for  blood  ?  Though  they  had  seven-leagued 
boots,  you  remember  all  sorts  of  little  whipping-snapping  Tom 
Thumbs  used  to  elude  and  outrun  them.  They  were  so  stupid 
that  they  gave  in  to  tlie  most  shallow  ambuscades  and  artifices  : 
witness  that  well-known  ogre,  who,  because  Jack  cut  open  the 
hasty-pudding,  instantly  rippeil  open  his  own  stupid  waistcoat  and 
interior.  They  were  cruel,  brutal,  disgusting,  with  their  sharpened 
teeth,  immense  knives,  and  roaring  voices  !  but  they  always  ended 
by  being  overcome  by  little  Tom  Thumbkins,  or  some  other  smart 
little  champion. 

Yes ;  they  were  conquered  in  tlie  end  there  is  no  doubt.  They 
plunged  headlong  (and  uttering  the  most  frightful  bad  language) 
into  some  pit  where  Jack  came  with  his  smart  couteau  de  chasse, 
and  whipped  their  brutal  heads  oft'.  They  would  be  going  to 
devour  maidens, 

"  But  ever  when  it  seemed 

Their  need  was  at  the  sorest, 
A  knight,  in  armour  bright. 

Came  riding  through  the  forest." 

And  down,  after  a  combat,  would  go  the  brutal  persecutor,  with  a 
lance  through  his  midrift".  Yes,  I  say,  this  is  very  true  and  well. 
But  you  remember  that  round  the  ogre's  cave  the  ground  was 
covered,  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  yards,  with  the  bones  of  the 
victims  whom  he  had  lured  into  the  castle.  Many  knights  and 
maids  came  to  him  and  perished  under  his  knife  and  teeth.  Were 
dragons  the  same  as  ogres?  monsters  dwelling  in  caverns,  whence 
they  rushed,  attired  in  plate  armour,  wielding  pikes  and  torches, 
and  destroying  stray  passengers  who  jiassed  by  their  lair  1  Monsters, 
brutes,  rapacious  tyrants,  ruftians,  as  they  were,  doubtless  they 
ended  by  being  overcome.  But,  before  they  were  destroyed,  they 
did  a  deal  of  mischief.  The  bones  round  their  caves  were  countless. 
They  had  sent  many  brave  souls  to  Hades,  before  their  own  fled, 
howling  out  of  their  rascal  carcasses,  to  the  same  place  of  gloom. 

There  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  fairies, 
champions,  distressed  damsels,  and  by  consequence  ogres,  have 
ceased  to  exist.  It  may  not  be  ogreahle  to  them  (pardon  the 
horrible  pleasantry,  but  as  I  am  writing  in  the  solitude  of  my 
chamber,  I  am  grinding  my  teeth — yelling,  roaring,  and  cursing — 
brandishing  my  scissors  and  paper-cutter  and  as  it  were  have  become 
an  ogre).     I  say  there  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  tiiat 


312  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

ogres  have  ceased  to  exist.  We  all  hioiv  ogres.  Their  caverns  are 
round  us,  and  about  us.  There  are  the  castles  of  several  ogres 
within  a  mile  of  the  spot  where  I  write.  I  think  some  of  them 
susi)ect  I  am  an  ogre  myself.  I  am  not,  but  I  knoAv  they  are.  I 
visit  them.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  they  take  a  cold  roast  prince 
out  of  the  cupboard,  and  have  a  cannibal  feast  before  me.  But  I 
see  the  bones  lying  about  the  roads  to  their  houses,  and  in  the 
areas  and  gardens.  Politeness,  of  course,  prevents  me  from  making 
any  remarks  :  but  I  know  them  well  enough.  One  of  the  ways  to 
know  'em  is  to  watch  the  scared  looks  of  the  ogres'  wives  and 
children.  They  lead  an  awful  life.  They  are  present  at  dreadful 
cruelties.  In  their  excesses  those  ogres  will  stab  about  and  kill 
not  only  strangers  who  happen  to  call  in  and  ask  a  night's  lodging, 
but  they  will  outrage,  murder,  and  chop  up  their  own  kin.  We  all 
know  ogres,  I  say,  and  have  been  in  their  dens  often.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  ogres  who  ask  you  to  dine  should  offer  their  guests 
the  j^ecidiar  dish  whicli  they  like.  Tliey  cannot  always  get  a  Tom 
Thumb  fiimily.  They  eat  mutton  and  beef  too;  and  I  daresay 
even  go  out  to  tea,  and  invite  you  to  drink  it.  But  I  tell  you  there 
are  numbers  of  them  going  about  in  the  world.  And  now  you  have 
my  word  for  it,  and  this  little  hint,  it  is  quite  curious  what  an 
interest  society  may  be  made  to  have  for  you  by  your  determining 
to  find  out  the  ogres  you  meet  there. 

What  does  the  man  mean?  says  Mrs.  Downright,  to  whom  a 
joke  is  a  very  grave  thing.  I  mean,  madam,  that  in  the  company 
assembled  in  your  genteel  drawing-room,  who  bow  here  and  there, 
and  smirk  in  white  neckcloths,  you  receive  men  who  elbow  through 
life  successfully  enougli,  but  who  are  ogres  in  private :  men  wicked, 
false,  rapacious,  flattering ;  cruel  hectors  at  home,  smiling  courtiers 
abroad  ;  causing  wives,  children,  servants,  parents,  to  tremble  before 
them,  and  smiling  and  bowing,  as  they  bid  strangers  welcome  into 
their  castles.  I  say,  there  are  men  who  have  crunched  the  bones 
of  victim  after  victim  ;  in  whose  closets  lie  skeletons  picked  fright- 
fully clean.  When  these  ogres  come  out  into  the  world,  you  don't 
suppose  they  show  their  knives,  and  their  great  teeth?  A  neat 
simple  white  neckcloth,  a  merry  rather  obsequious  manner,  a  cada- 
verous look,  perhaps,  now  and  again,  and  a  rather  dreadful  grin ; 
but  I  know  ogres  very  considerably  respected  :  and  when  you  hint 
to  such  and  such  a  man,  "  My  dear  sir,  Mr.  Sharpus,  whom  you 
appear  to  like,  is,  I  assure  you,  a  most  dreadful  cannibal ; "  the 
gentleman  cries,  "  Oh,  psha,  nonsense  !  Daresay  not  so  black  as  he 
is  painted.  Daresay  not  worse  than  his  neighbours."  We  condone 
everything  in  this  country — private  treason,  falsehood,  flattery, 
cruelty  at   home,  roguery,   and   double-dealing.     What !     Do  you 


OGRES  S13 

mean  to  say  in  your  acquaintance  you  don't  know  ogres  guilty  of 
countless  crimes  of  fraud  and  force,  and  that  knowing  them  you 
don't  shake  hands  with  them ;  dine  with  them  at  your  table ;  and 
meet  them  at  their  own  1  Depend  upon  it  in  the  time  when  there 
were  real  live  ogres,  in  real  caverns  or  castles,  gobl)ling  up  real 
knights  and  virgins,  when  they  went  into  the  world — the  neighbour- 
ing market-town,  let  us  say,  or  earl's  castle— though  their  nature 
and  reputation  were  pretty  well  known,  their  notorious  foibles  wcie 
never  alluded  to.  You  would  say,  "  What,  Blunderbore,  my  boy  ! 
How  do  you  do  1  How  well  and  fresh  you  look !  What's  the 
receipt  you  have  for  keeping  so  young  and  rosy  1 "  And  your  wife 
would  softly  ask  after  Mrs.  Blunderbore  and  the  dear  children.  Or 
it  would  be,  "  My  dear  Huniguffin  !  try  that  pork.  It  is  home 
bred,  home-fed,  and,  I  i^romise  you,  tender.  Tell  me  if  you  think 
it  is  as  good  as  yours  1  John,  a  glass  of  burgundy  to  Colonel 
Humguffin  ! "  You  don't  suppose  there  would  be  any  inii)]easant 
allusions  to  disagreeable  home-rei)orts  regarding  Humguffin's  maimer 
of  furnishing  his  larder?  I  say  we  all  of  us  know  ogres.  We 
shake  hands  and  dine  with  ogres.  And  if  inconvenient  moralists 
tell  us  we  are  cowards  for  our  pains,  we  turn  round  with  a  tu  quoqne, 
or  say  that  we  don't  meddle  with  other  folk's  affairs ;  that  pco})le 
are  much  less  black  than  they  are  painted,  and  so  on.  What ! 
Won't  half  the  county  go  to  Ogreham  Castle'?  Won't  some  of  the 
clergy  say  grace  at  dinner  1  Won't  the  mothers  bring  their  daughters 
to  dance  with  the  young  Rawheads  1  And  if  Lady  Ogreham  happens 
to  die — I  won't  say  to  go  the  way  of  all  flesh,  that  is  too  revolting 
■ — I  say  if  Ogreham  is  a  widower,  do  you  aver,  on  your  conscience 
and  honour,  that  mothers  will  not  be  found  to  offer  their  young  girls 
to  supply  the  lamented  lady's  ])lace'?  How  stale  this  misanthropy 
is !  Something  must  have  disagreed  with  this  cynic.  Yes,  my 
good  woman.  I  daresay  you  would  like  to  call  another  subject. 
Yes,  my  fine  follow ;  ogre  at  home,  supple  as  a  dancing-master 
abroad,  and  shaking  in  thy  pumps,  and  wearing  a  horrible  grin  of 
sham  gaiety  to  conceal  thy  terror,  lest  I  should  point  thee  out :- — 
thou  art  prosjierous  and  honoured,  art  thou  1  I  say  thou  hast  been 
a  tyrant  and  a  robber.  Thou  hast  ])lundered  the  poor.  Thou  hast 
bullied  the  weak.  Thou  hast  laid  violent  hands  on  the  goods  of  the 
innocent  and  confiding.  Thou  hast  made  a  prey  of  the  meek  and 
gentle  who  asked  for  tiiy  protection.  Thou  hast  been  hard  to  thy 
kinsfolk,  and  cruel  to  thy  foniily.  Go,  monster !  Ah,  when  shall 
little  Jack  come  and  drill  daylight  through  thy  wicked  cannibal 
carcass  1  I  see  the  ogre  i)ass  on,  bowing  right  and  left  to  the  com- 
pany ;  and  he  gives  a  dreadful  sidelong  glance  of  suspicion  as  he  is 
talking  to  ray  Lord  Bishop  in  the  corner  there. 


314  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Ogres  in  our  days  need  not  be  giants  at  all.     In  former  times, 
and  in  children's  books,  where  it  is  necessary  to  paint  your  moral 
in  such  large  letters  that  there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it,  ogres 
are  made  with  that  enormous  mouth  and  ratelier  which  you  know 
of,  and  with  which  they  can  swallow  down  a  baby,  almost  without 
using  that  great  knife  whicli  they  always   carry.     They  are   too 
cunning  nowadays.     They  go  about  in  society,  slim,  small,  quietly 
dressed,  and  showing  no   especially  great  appetite.     In   my  own 
young  days  there  used  to  be  play  ogres— men  who  would  devour  a 
young  fellow  in  one  sitting,  and  leave  him  without  a  bit  of  flesh  on 
ills  bones.     They  M'ere  quite  gentlemanlikedooking  people.  ^  They 
got  the  young  fellow  into  their  cave.     Champagne,  patd-de-foie-gras, 
and  numberless  good  things,  were  handed  about ;  and  then,  having 
eaten,  the  young  man  was  devoured  in  his  turn.     I  believe  these 
card  and  dice  ogres  have  died  away  almost  as  entirely  as  the  hasty- 
pudding  giants  whom   Tom    Tluunb  overcame.      Now,   there   are 
ogres  in  City  courts  who  lure  you  into   their  dens.     About  our 
Cornish  mines  I  am  told  tliere  are  many  most  plausible  ogres,  who 
tempt  you  into  their  cavei-ns   and  pick  your  bones  there.     In  a 
certain  newspaper  there  used  to  be  lately  a  whole  colunm  of  adver- 
tisements from  ogres  who  would  put  on  the  most  plausible,  nay, 
piteous  appearance,  in  order  to  inveigle  their  victims.     You  Avould 
read,  "  A  tradesman,  established  for  seventy  years  in  the  City,  and 
known  and  much  respected  by  Messrs.  N.  M.  Rothschild  and  Baring 
Brothers,  has  pressing  need  for  three  pounds  until  next  Saturday. 
He  can  give  security  for  half  a  million,  and  forty  thousand  pounds 
will  be  given  for  the  use  of  the  loan,"  and  so  on ;  or,  "  An  influen- 
tial body  of  capitalists  are  about  to  establish  a  company,  of  which 
the  business  will  be  enormous  and  the  profits  proportionately  pro- 
digious.     They  will  require  A   secretary,   of  good  address  and 
appearance,  at  a  salary  of  two  thousand  per  annum.     He  need  not 
be  able  to  write,  but  address  and  manners  are  absolutely  necessary. 
As  a  mark  of  confidence  in  the  company,  he  will  have  to  deposit," 
&c. ;  or,   "  A  young  widow  (of  pleasing  manners  and  appearance) 
who  has  a  pressing  necessity  for  four  pounds  ten  for  three  weeks, 
off'ers  her  Erard's  grand  piano  valued  at  three  hundred  guineas ;  a 
diamond  cross  of  eight  hundred  pounds ;  and  board  and  lodging  in 
her  elegant  villa  near  Banbury  Cross,  with  the  best  references  and 
society,  in  return  for  the  loan."     I  suspect  these  people  are  ogres. 
There^  are  ogres  and  ogres.     Polyphemus  was  a  great,  tall,  one-eyed, 
notorious  ogre,  fetching  his   victims  out  of  a  hole,  and  gobbling 
them  one  after  another.     Tliere  could  be  no  mistake  about  him. 
But  so  were  the  Sirens  ogres— pretty  blue-eyed  things,  peeping  at 
you  coaxingly  from  out  of  the  water,  and  singing  their  melodious 


OGRES  315 

wheedles.  And  tlie  hones  round  their  caves  were  more  numerous 
than  the  ribs,  skulls,  and  thigli-bones  round  the  cavern  of  hulking 
Polypheme, 

To  the  castle-gates  of  some  of  these  monsters  up  rides  the  dapper 
champion  of  the  pen  •  pufts  boldly  upon  the  horn  which  hangs  by 
the  chain  ;  enters  the  hall  resolutely,  and  challenges  the  big  tyrant 
sulking  witliin.  We  defy  him  to  combat,  the  enormous  roaring 
ruffian  !  We  give  him  a  meeting  on  the  green  plain  before  his 
castle.  Green  ]  No  wonder  it  should  be  green  :  it  is  manured  witii 
human  bones.  After  a  few  graceful  wheels  and  curvets,  we  take  our 
ground.  We  stoop  over  our  saddle.  'Tis  but  to  kiss  the  locket  of 
our  lady-love's  hair.  And  now  the  vizor  is  up  :  the  lance  is  in 
rest  (Gillott's  iron  is  tlie  point  for  me).  A  touch  of  the  spur  in 
the  gallant  sides  of  Pegasus,  and  we  gallop  at  the  great  brute. 

"  Cut  off  his  ugly  head.  Flibbertigibbet,  my  squire  !  "  And 
wiio  are  these  who  pour  out  of  the  castle"?  the  imprisoned  maidens, 
the  maltreated  widows,  the  poor  old  hoary  grandfathers,  who  have 
been  locked  np  in  tlie  dungeons  these  scores  and  scores  of  years, 
writhing  under  the  tyranny  of  that  ruffian  !  Ah,  ye  knights  of  the 
pen  !  May  honour  be  your  shield,  and  truth  tip  your  lances  !  Be 
gentle  to  all  gentle  people.  Be  modest  to  women.  Be  tender  to 
children.  And  as  for  tlie  Ogre  Humbug,  out  sword  and  have  at 
him. 


ON  TWO  ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS   WHICH  I 
INTENDED   TO    WRITE* 


WE  liave  all  heard  of  a  place  paved  with  good  intentions  : — 
a  place  which  I  take  to  be  a  very  dismal,  useless,  and  un- 
satisftictory  terminus  for  many  pleasant  thoughts,  kindly 
fancies,  gentle  wishes,  merry  little  quips  and  pranks,  harmless  jokes 
which  <lie  as  it  were  the  moment  of  their  birth.  Poor  little  children 
of  tlie  brain  !  He  was  a  dreary  theologian  who  huddled  you  under 
such  a  melancholy  cenotaph,  and  laid  you  in  the  vaults  under  the 
flagstones  of  Hades  !  I  trust  that  some  of  the  best  actions  we  have 
all  of  us  committed  in  our  lives  have  been  committed  in  fancy.  It 
is  not  all  wickedness  we  are  thinking,  que  (liable !  Some  of  our 
thoughts  are  bad  enough  I  grant  you.  Many  a  one  you  and  I  have 
had  here  below.  Ah  mercy,  what  a  monster !  what  crooked  horns  ! 
what  leering  eyes !  what  a  flaming  mouth  !  what  cloven  feet,  and 
what  a  hideous  writhing  tail !  Oh,  let  us  fall  down  on  our  knees, 
repeat  our  most  potent  exorcisms,  and  overcome  the  brute.  Spread 
your  black  pinions,  fly — fly  to  the  dusky  realms  of  Eblis,  and  bury 
thyself  under  the  paving-stones  of  his  hall,  dark  genie !  But  all 
thoughts  are  not  so.  No — ^no.  There  are  the  pure :  there  are  the 
kind :  there  are  the  gentle.  There  are  sweet  unspoken  thanks 
before  a  fair  scene  of  nature  :  at  a  sunsetting  below  a  glorious  sea ; 
or  a  moon  and  a  host  of  stars  shining  over  it :  at  a  bunch  of  children 
playing  in  the  street,  or  a  group  of  flowers  by  the  hedge-side,  or  a 
bird  singing  there.  At  a  hundred  moments  or  occurrences  of  the 
day  good  thoughts  pass  through  the  mind,  let  us  trust,  which  never 
are  spoken  ;  prayers  are  made  which  never  are  said ;  and  Te  Deum 
is  sung  without  church,  clerk,  choristers,  parson,  or  organ.  Why, 
there's  my  enemy :  who  got  the  place  I  wanted ;  who  maligned  me 
to  the  woman  I  wanted  to  be  well  with  ;  who  supplanted  me  in  the 
good  graces  of  my  patron.     I  don't  say  anything  about  the  matter : 

*  The  following  paper  was  written  in  1861,  after  the  extraordinary  affray 
between  Major  51  array  and  the  money-lender  in  a  house  in  Northumtierland 
Street,  Strand,  and  subsequent  to  the  appearance  of  M.  Du  Chaillu's  book  on 
Gorillas. 


ON   TWO    PAPERS    I   INTENDED    TO   WRITE     317 

but,  my  poor  old  eiiemj',  in  mj'  secret  mind  I  have  movements  of 
as  tender  charity  towards  you,  yon  old  scoundrel,  as  ever  I  had 
when  we  were  boys  together  at  school.  You  ruffian  !  do  you  fancy  I 
forget  that  we  were  fond  of  each  other  ?  We  are  still.  We  share  our 
tofty  ;  go  halves  at  the  tuck-shop  ;  do  each  other's  exercises  ;  prompt 
each  other  with  the  word  in  construing  or  repetition  ;  and  tell  the 
most  frightful  fibs  to  prevent  each  other  from  being  found  out.  We 
meet  each  other  in  public.  Ware  a  fight !  Get  them  into  different 
parts  of  the  room  !  Our  friends  hustle  round  us.  Capulet  and 
Montague  are  not  more  at  odds  than  the  houses  of  Roundabout  and 
Wrightabout,  let  us  say.  It  is,  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Buffer,  do  kindly 
put  yourself  in  the  chair  between  those  two  men  ! "  Or,  "  My  dear 
Wrightabout,  will  you  take  that  charming  Lady  Blancmange  down 
to  supper  1  She  adores  your  poems ;  and  gave  five  shillings  for 
your  autograph  at  the  fancy  fair."  In  like  manner  the  peacemakers 
gather  round  Roundabout  on  his  i)art :  he  is  carried  to  a  distant 
corner,  and  coaxed  out  of  the  way  of  the  enemy  with  whom  he  is 
at  feud. 

When  we  meet  in  the  Square  at  Verona,  out  flash  rapiers,  and 
we  fall  to.  But  in  his  private  mind  Tybalt  owns  that  Mercutio 
has  a  rare  wit,  and  Mercutio  is  sure  that  his  adversary  is  a  gallant 
gentleman.  Look  at  the  amphitheatre  yonder.  You  do  not  suppose 
those  gladiators  who  fought  and  perished,  as  hundreds  of  spectatois 
in  that  grim  Circus  held  thumbs  down,  and  cried,  "  Kill,  kill ! " — 
you  do  not  suppose  the  combatants  of  necessity  hated  each  other? 
No  more  than  the  celebrated  trained  bands  of  literary  sword -and- 
buckler  men  hate  the  adversaries  whom  they  meet  in  the  arena. 
They  engage  at  the  given  signal ;  feint  and  parry ;  slash,  poke,  rip 
each  other  open,  dismember  limbs,  and  hew  off"  noses :  but  in  the 
way  of  business,  and,  I  trust,  with  mutual  private  esteem.  For 
instance,  I  salute  the  warriors  of  the  Superfine  Company  with  the 
lionours  due  among  waiTiors.  Here's  at  you,  Spartacus,  my  lad. 
A  hit,  I  acknowledge.  A  palpable  hit !  Ha !  how  do  you  like 
that  poke  in  the  eye  in  return  1  When  the  trumpets  sing  truce, 
or  the  spectators  are  tired,  we  bow  to  the  noble  company  :  with- 
draw ;  and  get  a  cool  glass  of  wine  in  our  rendezvotis  ties  braves 
(/ladiateurs. 

By  the  way,  I  saw  that  amphitheatre  of  Verona  under  the 
strange  light  of  a  lurid  eclipse  some  years  ago  :  and  I  have  been 
there  in  sitii'it  for  these  twenty  lines  })ast,  under  a  vast  gusty 
awning,  now  with  twenty  thousand  fellow-citizens  looking  on  from 
the  benches,  now  in  the  circus  itself,  a  grim  gladiator  with  sword 
and  net,  or  a  meek  martyr — was  I  ? — brought  out  to  be  gobbled  up 
by  the  lions  ?  or  a  huge,  shaggy,  tawny  lion  myself,  on  whom  the 


318  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

dogs  were  going  to  be  set  ?  What  a  day  of  excitement  I  have  had 
to  be  sure  !  But  I  must  get  away  from  Verona,  or  who  knows  how 
much  fartlier  tlie  Roundabout  Pegasus  may  carry  me? 

We  were  saying,  my  IMuse,  before  we  dropped  and  perched  on 
earth  for  a  couple  of  sentences,  that  our  unsaid  words  were  in  some 
limbo  or  other,  as  real  as  those  we  have  uttered  ;  that  the  thoughts 
which  have  passed  through  our  brains  are  as  actual  as  any  to  which 
our  tongues  and  pens  have  given  currency.  For  instance,  besides 
what  is  here  hinted  at,  I  have  thought  ever  so  much  more  about 
Verona :  about  an  early  Christian  church  I  saw  there ;  about  a 
great  dish  of  rice  we  had  at  the  inn ;  about  the  bugs  there ;  about 
ever  so  many  more  details  of  that  day's  journey  from  Milan  to 
Venice ;  about  Lake  Garda,  which  lay  on  the  way  from  Milan,  and 
so  forth.  I  say  what  fine  things  we  have  tliought  of,  haven't  we, 
all  of  us?  Ah,  what  a  fine  tragedy  that  was  I  thouglit  of,  and 
never  wrote  !  On  tlie  day  of  the  dinner  of  the  Oystermongers' 
Company,  what  a  noble  speech  I  thought  of  in  the  cab,  and  broke 
down — I  don't  mean  the  cab,  but  the  speech.  Ah,  if  you  could 
but  read  some  of  the  unwritten  Roundabout  papers — -how  you 
would  be  amused !  Aha !  my  friend,  I  catch  you  saying,  "  Well 
then,  I  wisli  this  was  unwritten  with  all  my  heart."  Very  good. 
I  owe  you  one.     I  do  confess  a  hit,  a  palpable  hit. 

One  day  in  the  past  mouth,  as  I  was  reclining  on  the  bench  of 
thought,  with  that  ocean  the  Times  newspaper  spread  before  me, 
the  ocean  cast  up  on  the  shore  at  my  feet  two  famous  subjects  for 
Roundabout  Papers,  and  I  picked  up  those  waifs,  and  treasured 
them  away  until  I  could  polish  them  and  bring  them  to  market. 
That  scheme  is  not  to  be  carried  out.  I  can't  write  about  those 
subjects.  And  though  I  cannot  write  about  them,  I  may  surely 
tell  what  are  the  subjects  I  am  going  not  to  write  about. 

The  first  was  that  Northumberland  Street  encounter,  which  all 
the  papers  have  narrated.  Have  any  novelists  of  our  days  a  scene 
and  catastrophe  more  strange  and  terrible  tlian  this  whicl:  occurs 
at  noonday  within  a  few  yards  of  the  greatest  thoroughfare  in 
Europe  ?  At  the  theatres  they  have  a  new  name  for  their  luelo- 
dramatic  pieces,  and  call  them  "  Sensation  Dramas."  What  a 
sensation  drama  this  is  !  What  have  people  been  flocking  to  see 
at  the  Adelphi  Theatre  for  the  last  hundred  and  fifty  nights  ?  A 
woman  pitched  overboard  out  of  a  boat,  and  a  certain  Miles  taking 
a  tremendous  "header,"  and  bringing  her  to  shore?  Bagatelle! 
What  is  this  compared  to  the  real  life-drama,  of  which  a  midday 
representation  takes  place  just  opposite  the  Adelphi  in  Northum- 
berland Street?  The  brave  Dumas,  the  intrejiid  Ainswoi-th,  the 
terrible  Eugene  Sue,  the  cold-shudder-inspiring  "  Woman  in  AVhite," 


ON  TWO    PAPERS    I    INTENDED    TO   WRITE     319 

the  astounding  author  of  the  "Mysteries  of  the  Court  of  London," 
never  invented  anything  more  tremendous  than  this.  It  might  have 
happened  to  you  and  me.  We  want  to  borrow  a  little  money.  We 
are  directed  to  an  agent.  We  propose  a  pecuniary  transaction  at  a 
short  date.  He  goes  into  the  next  room,  as  we  foncy,  to  get  the 
bank-notes,  and  returns  with  "  two  very  pretty  delicate  little  ivory- 
handled  pistols,"  and  blows  a  portion  of  our  heads  off.  After  this, 
what  is  the  use  of  being  squeamish  about  the  probabilities  and  jjossi- 
bilities  in  the  writing  of  fiction  ?  ,  Years  ago  I  remember  making 
merry  over  a  i)lay  of  Dumas,  called  "  Kean,"  in  which  the  "  Coal- 
Hole  Tavern  "  was  represented  on  the  Thames,  with  a  fleet  of  pirate- 
ships  moored  alongside.  Pirate-ships  1  Why  not  ?  Wliat  a  cavern 
of  terror  was  this  in  Northumberland  Street,  with  its  splendid 
furniture  covered  with  dust,  its  empty  bottles,  in  the  midst  of 
which  sits  a  grim  "  agent,"  amusing  himself  by  firing  pistols,  aiming 
at  the  unconscious  mantelpiece,  or  at  the  heads  of  his  customers  ! 

After  this,  what  is  not  possible  1  It  is  possible  Hungerford 
Market  is  mined,  and  will  explode  some  day.  Mind  how  you  go 
in  for  a  penny  ice  unawares.  "  Pray  step  this  way,"  says  a  quiet 
person  at  the  door.  You  enter — into  a  ba(;k-room  : — a  quiet  room  ; 
rather  a  dark  room.  "  Pray  take  your  ])lace  in  a  chair."  And  she 
goes  to  fetch  the  penny  ice.  Malheureux  !  The  chair  sinks  down 
with  you — sinks,  and  sinks,  and  sinks — a  large  wet  flannel  suddenly 
envelops  your  face  and  throttles  you.  Need  we  say  any  more  1 
After  Northumberland  Street,  what  is  improbable  1  Surely  there  is 
no  difficulty  in  crediting  Bluebeard.  I  withdraAv  my  last  month's 
opinions  about  ogres.  Ogres  1  Why  not  ?  I  protest  I  have  seldom 
contemplated  anything  more  terribly  ludicrous  than  this  "  agent " 
in  the  dingy  splendour  of  his  den,  surrounded  by  dusty  ormolu  and 
piles  of  empty  bottles,  firing  pistols  for  his  diversion  at  the  mantel- 
piece until  his  clients  come  in  !  Is  pistol-practice  so  common  in 
Northumberland  Street,  that  it  passes  witliout  notice  in  the  lodging- 
houses  there  1 

We  spake  anon  of  good  thoughts.  About  bad  thoughts  ?  Is 
there  some  Northumberland  Street  chamber  in  your  heart  and  mine, 
friend  :  close  to  the  every-day  street  of  life  :  visited  by  daily  friends  : 
visited  by  people  on  business  ;  in  which  affairs  are  transacted  ;  jokes 
are  uttered  ;  wine  is  drunk  ;  througli  which  people  come  and  go ; 
wives  and  children  pass  ;  and  in  which  murder  sits  unseen  until  the 
terrible  moment  when  he  rises  up  and  kills  1  A  farmer,  say,  has 
a  gun  over  the  mantelpiece  in  his  room  whore  Jie  sits  at  his  daily 
meals  and  rest :  caressing  his  children,  joking  with  his  friends, 
smoking  his  ])ipe  in  his  calm.  One  night  the  gun  is  taken  down  : 
the  fu.rmer  goes  out :  and  it  is  a  murderer  who  comes  back  and 


320  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

puts  the  piece  up  and  drinks  by  that  fireside.  Was  he  a  murderer 
yesterday,  when  he  was  tossing  the  baby  on  his  knee,  and  when  his 
hands  were  playing  with  his  little  girl's  yellow  hairl  Yesterday 
there  was  no  blood  on  them  at  aU  ;  they  were  shaken  by  honest 
men  :  have  done  many  a  kind  act  in  their  time  very  likely.  He 
leans  his  head  on  one  of  them,  the  wife  comes  in  with  her  anxious 
looks  of  welcome,  the  children  are  prattling  as  they  did  yesterday 
round  the  father's  knee  at  the  fire,  and  Cain  is  sitting  by  the  embers, 
and  Abel  lies  dead  on  the  moor.  Think  of  the  gulf  between  now 
and  yesterday.  Oh,  yesterday  !  Oh,  the  days  when  those  two 
loved  each  other  and  said  their  prayers  side  by  side  !  He  goes  to 
sleep,  perhaps,  and  dreams  that  his  brother  is  alive.  Be  true,  0 
dream  !  Let  him  live  in  dreams,  and  wake  no  more.  Be  undone, 
0  crime,  0  crime  !  But  the  sun  rises  :  and  the  officers  of  conscience 
come  :  and  yonder  lies  the  body  on  the  moor.  I  happened  to  pass, 
and  looked  at  the  Northumberland  Street  house  the  other  day.  A 
few  loiterers  were  gazing  up  at  the  dingy  windows.  A  plain  ordinary 
face  of  a  house  enough — and  in  a  chamber  in  it  one  man  suddenly 
rose  up,  pistol  in  hand,  to  slaugliter  another.  Have  you  ever  killed 
any  one  in  your  thoughts  1  Has  your  heart  compassed  any  man's 
deatli  ?  In  your  mind,  have  you  ever  taken  a  brand  from  the  altar, 
and  slain  your  brother?  How  many  jilain  ordinary  faces  of  men 
do  we  look  at,  imknowing  of  nmrder  behind  those  eyes  1  Lucky 
for  you  and  me,  brother,  tiiat  we  have  good  thoughts  unspoken. 
But  the  bad  ones?  I  tell  you  that  tlie  siglit  of  those  blank  windows 
in  Northumberland  Street — tlirougli  which,  as  it  were,  my  mind 
could  picture  the  awful  tragedy  glimnieiing  behind — set  me  think- 
ing, "  Mr.  Street-Preacher,  here  is  a  text  for  one  of  your  pavement 
sermons.  But  it  is  too  glum  and  serious.  You  eschew  dark 
thoughts  :  and  desire  to  be  clieerful  and  merry  in  the  main."  And 
such  being  the  case,  you  see  we  must  have  no  Roundabout  Essay 
on  this  subject. 

Well,  I  had  another  arrow  in  my  quiver.  (So^  you  know,  had 
William  Tell  a  bolt  for  his  son,  tlie  apple  of  his  eye ;  and  a  shaft 
for  Gessler,  in  case  William  came  to  any  trouble  with  the  first 
poor  little  target.)  And  this,  I  must  tell  you,  was  to  have  been 
a  rare  Roundabout  performance — one  of  the  very  best  that  has 
ever  appeared  in  this  series.  It  was  to  have  contained  all  the 
deep  ]iathos  of  Addison  ;  the  logical  ])recision  of  Rabelais :  the 
childlike  ])layfulness  of  Swift  ;  tlie  n;anly  stoicism  of  Sterne  :  tlie 
metapiiysical  depth  of  Goldsmith  ;  the  blushing  modesty  of  Field- 
ing ;  the  epigrammatic  terseness  of  Walter  Scott ;  the  uproarious 
humour  of  Sam  Richardson  ;  and  the  gay  simplicity  of  Sam  Johnson; 
— it  was  to  have  combined  all  these  qualities,  with  some  excellences 


ON    TWO    PAPERS    I    INTENDED    TO  WRITE     321 

of  modern  writers  whom  I  could  name  : — but  circumstances  have  oc- 
curred which  have  rendered  this  Roundabout  Essay  also  impossible. 

I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  tell  you  what  was  to  have 
been  the  subject  of  that  other  admirable  Roundabout  Paper. 
Gracious  powers !  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's  never  had  a  better 
theme.  The  paper  was  to  have  been  on  the  Gorillas,  to  be  sure. 
I  was  going  to  imagine  myself  to  be  a  young  surgeon-apprentice 
from  Charleston,  in  South  Carolina,  who  ran  away  to  Cuba  on 
account  of  unhappy  family  circumstances,  with  which  nobody  has 
the  least  concern  ;  who  sailed  thence  to  Africa  in  a  large  roomy 
schooner  with  an  extraordinary  vacant  space  between  decks.  I 
was  subject  to  dreadful  ill-treatment  from  the  first  mate  of  the 
ship,  who,  when  I  found  she  was  a  slaver,  altogether  declined  to 
put  me  on  sh(jre.  I  was  chased — we  Avere  chased — by  three  British 
frigates  and  a  seventy-four,  which  we  engaged  and  captured ;  but 
were  obliged  to  scuttle  and  sink,  as  we  could  sell  them  in  no 
African  port ;  and  I  never  shall  forget  the  look  of  manly  resigna- 
tion, combined  with  considerable  disgust,  of  the  British  Admiral  as 
he  walked  the  plank,  after  cutting  off  his  pigtail,  which  he  handed 
to  me,  and  which  I  still  have  in  charge  for  his  family  at  Boston, 
Lincolnshire,  England. 

We  made  the  port  of  Bpoopoo,  at  the  confluence  of  the  Bungo 
and  Sgglolo  rivers  (which  you  may  see  in  Swanimerdalil's  majt) 
on  the  31st  April  last  year.  Our  passage  had  been  so  extraordi- 
narily rapid,  owing  to  the  continued  drunkenness  of  the  captain 
and  chief  otiicers,  by  which  I  was  obliged  to  work  the  ship  and 
take  her  in  command,  tliat  we  reached  Bpoopoo  six  weeks  before 
we  were  expected,  and  five  before  the  Caftres  from  the  interior  and 
from  the  great  slave  depot  at  Zbabblo  were  expected.  Their  delay 
caused  us  not  a  little  discomfort,  because,  though  we  had  taken 
the  four  English  ships,  we  knew  that  Sir  Byam  Martin's  iron-cased 
squadron,  with  the  Warr-io7%  the  Imjn-egnable,  the  Sanconiathon, 
and  the  Berosus,  were  cruising  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  might 
prove  too  much  for  us. 

It  not  only  became  necessary  to  quit  Bpoopoo  before  the  arrival 
of  the  British  fleet  or  the  rainy  season,  but  to  get  our  i)eople  on 
board  as  soon  as  might  be.  While  the  chief  mate,  with  a  detach- 
ment of  seamen,  luirried  forward  to  the  Pgogo  lake,  where  we 
expected  a  considerable  part  of  our  cargo,  tlie  second  mate,  with 
six  men,  four  chiefs,  King  Fbumbo,  an  Obi  man,  and  myself,  went 
N.W.  by  W.,  towards  King  Mtoby's-town,  where  we  knew  many 
hundreds  of  our  between-deck  passengc^rs  were  to  be  got  together. 
We  went  down  the  Pdodo  river,  shooting  snipes,  ostriches,  and 
rhinoceros   in  plenty,  and  I  think  a  few  elephants,  until,  by  the 


S22  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

advice  of  a  guide,  who  I  now  believe  was  treacherous,  we  were 
induced  to  leave  the  Pdodo  and  march  N.E.  by  N.N.  Here  Lieu- 
tenant Larkins,  who  had  persisted  in  drinking  rum  from  morning 
to  night,  and  thrashing  me  in  his  sober  moments  during  the  whole 
journey,  died,  and  I  have  too  good  reason  to  know  was  eaten  with 
much  relish  by  the  natives.  At  Mgoo,  where  there  are  barracoons 
and  a  depot  for  our  cargo,  we  had  no  news  of  our  expected  freight ; 
accordingly,  as  time  pressed  exceedingly,  parties  were  despatched  in 
advance  towards  the  great  Washaboo  lake,  by  which  the  caravans 
usually  come  towards  the  coast.  Here  we  found  no  caravan,  but 
only  four  negroes,  down  with  the  ague,  whom  I  treated,  I  am 
bound  to  say,  unsuccessfully,  whilst  we  waited  for  our  friends. 
AVe  used  to  take  watch  and  watch  in  front  of  the  place,  both  to 
guard  ourselves  fi'om  attack,  and  get  early  news  of  the  approaching 
caravan. 

At  last,  on  the  23rd  September,  as  I  was  in  advance  with 
Charles  Rogers,  second  mate,  and  two  natives  with  bows  and 
arrows,  we  were  crossing  a  great  plain  skirted  by  a  forest,  when  we 
saw  emerging  from  a  ravine  what  I  took  to  be  three  negroes — a 
very  tall  one,  one  of  a  moderate  size,  and  one  quite  little. 

Our  native  guides  shrieked  out  some  words  in  their  language, 
of  which  Charles  Rogers  knew  something.  I  thought  it  was  the 
advance  of  the  negroes  whom  we  expected.  "  No  ! "  said  Rogers 
(who  swore  dreadfully  in  conversation),  "  it  is  the  Gorillas  !  "  And 
he  fired  both  barrels  of  his  gun,  bringing  down  the  little  one  first, 
and  the  female  afterwards. 

The  male,  who  was  untouched,  gave  a  howl  that  you  might 
have  heard  a  league  off";  advanced  towards  us  as  if  he  would  attack 
us,  and  then  turned  and  ran  away  with  inconceivable  celerity 
towards  the  wood. 

We  went  up  towards  the  fallen  brutes.  Tlie  little  one  by  the 
female  appeared  to  be  about  two  years  old.  It  lay  bleating  and 
moaning  on  the  ground,  stretching  out  its  little  hands,  with  move- 
ments and  looks  so  strangely  resembling  human,  that  my  heart 
sickened  with  pity.  The  female,  who  had  been  shot  through  both 
legs,  could  not  move.  She  howled  most  hideously  when  I  approached 
tlie  little  one. 

"We  must  be  off","  said  Rogers,  "or  the  whole  Gorilla  race 
may  be  down  upon  us."  "The  little  one  is  only  shot  in  the  leg," 
I  said.  "  I'll  bind  the  limb  up,  and  we  will  carry  the  beast  with 
us  on  board." 

The  poor  little  wretch  held  up  its  leg  to  show  it  was  wounded, 
and  lookeii  to  me  with  appealing  eyes.  It  lay  quite  still  whilst  I 
looked  for  and  found  the  bullet,  and,  tearing  off  a  piece  of  my  shirt, 


ON   TWO   PAPERS   I   INTENDED    TO  WRITE     323 

bandaged  up  the  wound.  I  was  so  occupied  in  this  business  tliat  I 
Iiardly  heard  Rogers  cry  "  Run  !  run  !  "  and  when  I  looked  u]) 

When  I  looked  up,  wath  a  roar  the  most  horrible  I  ever  heard 
— a  roar?  ten  thousand  roars — a  whirling  army  of  dark  beings 
rushed  by  me.  Rogers,  who  had  bullied  me  so  frightfully  during 
the  voyage,  and  who  liad  encouraged  my  fatal  passion  for  play,  so 
that  I  own  I  owed  him  1500  dollars,  was  overtaken,  felled,  brained, 
and  torn  into  ten  thousand  pieces ;  and  I  daresay  the  same  fate 
would  have  fallen  on  me,  but  that  the  little  Gorilla,  whose  wound 
I  had  dressed,  flung  its  arms  round  my  neck  (their  arms,  you  know, 
are  much  longer  than  ours).  And  when  an  immense  grey  Goi-illa, 
with  hardly  any  teeth,  brandishing  tlie  trunk  of  a  gollybosh-tree 
about  sixteen  feet  long,  came  up  to  me  roaring,  the  little  one 
squeaked  out  something  plaintive,  Avhich,  of  course,  I  could  not 
understand ;  on  which  suddenly  the  monster  flung  down  his  tree, 
squatted  down  on  his  huge  hams  by  the  side  of  the  little  patient, 
and  began  to  bellow  and  weep. 

And  now,  do  you  see  whom  I  had  rescued  ?  I  had  rescued  the 
young  Prince  of  the  Gorillas,  who  Avas  out  walking  with  his  nui'se 
and  footman.  The  footman  had  run  off"  to  alarm  his  master,  and 
certainly  I  never  saw  a  fof)tman  run  quicker.  The  whole  army  of 
Gorillas  rushed  forward  to  rescue  tlieir  prince,  and  punish  his 
enemies.  If  the  King  Gorilla's  emotion  was  great,  foncy  what  the 
Queen's  must  have  been  when  she  came  up  !  She  arrived,  on  a 
litter,  neatly  enough  made  with  wattled  bi'anches,  on  which  she 
lay,  with  her  youngest  child,  a  prince  of  three  weeks  old. 

My  little  ^wo^fyc',  with  the  wounded  leg,  still  persisted  in 
hugging  me  with  its  arms  (I  think  I  mentioned  that  they  are  longer 
than  those  of  men  in  general),  and  as  the  poor  little  brute  was 
immensely  heavy,  and  the  Gorillas  go  at  a  prodigious  pace,  a  litter 
was  made  for  us  likewise ;  and  my  thirst  much  refreshed  by  a 
footman  (the  same  domestic  who  had  given  the  alarm)  lunning 
hand  over  hand  up  a  cocoa-nut  tree,  tearing  the  rinds  oft",  breaking 
the  sliell  on  his  head,  and  handing  me  the  fresh  milk  in  its  cup. 
My  little  patient  partook  of  a  little,  stretching  out  his  dear  little 
Tuiwounded  foot,  with  whicli,  or  with  its  hand,  a  Gorilla  can  help 
itself  indiscriminately.  Relays  of  large  Gorillas  relieved  each  other 
at  the  litters  at  intervals  of  twenty  minutes,  as  I  calculated  by  my 
watch,  one  of  Jones  and  Bates's,  of  Boston,  Mass.,  though  I  have 
been  unable  to  this  <lay  to  ascertain  how  these  animals  calculate 
time  with  such  surprising  accin'acy.  We  slept  for  that  night 
under 

And  now,  you  see,  we  arrive  at  really  the  most  interesting  part 
pf  my  travels  in  the  coimtry  winch   I  intended  to  visit,  viz.  th? 


324  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

manners  and  liabits  of  the  G(Jiillas  ch(^z  eux.  I  give  the  heads  of 
this  narrative  only,  the  full  account  being  suppressed  for  a  reason 
which  shall  presently  be  given.  The  heads,  then,  of  the  chapters, 
are  briefly  as  follows  : — 

The  author's  arrival  in  the  Gorilla  country.  Its  geographical 
position.  Lodgings  assigned  to  him  up  a  gum-tree.  Constant 
attachment  of  the  little  Prince.  His  Royal  Ilighness's  gratitude. 
Anecdotes  of  his  wit,  playfulness,  and  extraordinary  precocity. 
Am  offered  a  jmrtion  of  p)Oor  Larhins  for  my  supper,  Lut  decline 
with  liorror.  Footman  brings  me  a  young  crocodile :  Jjshy,  but 
very  palatable.  Old  crocodiles  too  tough  :  ditto  rhinoceros.  Visit 
the  Queen  Mother — an  enormous  old  Gorilla,  quite  white.  Pre- 
scribe for  her  Majesty.  Meeting  of  Gorillas  at  what  appears  a 
j)arliament  amongst  them :  jjresided  over  by  old  Gorilla  in  cocoa- 
nut-fibre  xvlg.  Their  sjjorts.  Their  customs.  A  jirivileged  class 
amongst  them.  Extraordinary  likeness  of  Gorillas  to  p)eo2>le  at 
home,  both  at  Charleston,  S.C.,  my  native  place;  and  London, 
England,  which  I  have  visited.  Flat-nosed  Gorillas  and  blue- 
nosed  Gorillas  ;  their  hatred,  and  tvars  betiueen  them.  In  a  j)art 
of  the  country  (its  geographical  p)osition  described)  I  see  several 
negroes  under  Gorilla  domination.  Well  treated  by  their  Piasters. 
Frog-eating  Gorillas  across  the  Salt  Lake.  Bull-headed  Gorillas 
— their  mutual  hostility.  Green  Island  Gorillas.  More  quarrel- 
some than  the  Bull-heads,  and  howl  much  louder.  I  am  called 
to  attend  one  of  the  jmncesses.  Evident  partiality  of  H.R.H.  for 
me.  Jealousy  and  rage  of  large  red-headed  Gorilla.  Hoto  shall 
I  escape  ? 

Ay,  how  indeed  ?  Do  you  wish  to  know  ?  Is  your  curiosity 
excited  ?  Well,  I  do  know  how  I  escaped.  I  could  tell  the  most 
extraordinary  adventures  that  happened  to  me.  I  could  show  you 
resemblances  to  people  at  home,  tliat  woidd  make  them  blue  with 
rage  and  you  crack  your  sides  with  laughter.  .  .  .  And  what  is 
the  reason  I  cannot  write  this  paper,  having  all  the  facts  before 
me  1  The  reason  is,  that  walking  down  Saint  James  Street  yester- 
day, I  met  a  friend  who  says  to  me,  "  Roundabout,  my  boy,  have 
you  seen  your  picture  1  Here  it  is  !  "  And  he  pulls  out  a  portrait, 
executed  in  photography,  of  your  humble  servant,  as  an  immense 
and  most  unpleasant-featured  l)aboon,  with  long  hairy  hands,  and 
called  by  the  waggish  artist  "  A  Literary  Gorilla."  0  horror ! 
And  now  you  see  why  I  can't  i)lay  off  this  joke  myself,  and 
moralise  on  the  fable,  as  it  has  been  narrated  already  de  me. 


A  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE 


THE  group  of  dusky  childrou  of  the  captivity  on  the  next 
page  is  copied  out  of  a  little  sketch-book  which  I  carried  in 
many  a  roundabout  journey,  and  will  point  a  moral  as  well 
as  any  other  sketch  in  the  volume.  The  drawing  was  made  in 
a  country  where  there  was  such  hospitality,  friendship,  kindness, 
shown  to  the  humble  designer,  that  his  eyes  do  not  care  to  look  out 
for  faults,  or  his  pen  to  note  them.  How  they  sang ;  how  they 
laugheil  and  giinned ;  how  they  scraped,  bowed,  and  complimented 
you  and  each  other,  those  negmes  of  the  cities  of  the  Southern  parts 
of  the  then  United  States  !  My  business  kept  me  in  the  towns ; 
I  was  but  in  one  negro-plantation  village,  and  there  were  only 
women  and  little  children,  the  men  being  out  afield.  But  there 
was  plenty  of  cheerfulness  in  the  huts,  under  the  great  trees — I 
speak  of  what  I  sjiw — and  amidst  the  dusky  bondsmen  of  the  cities. 
I  witnessed  a  curious  gaiety ;  heard  amongst  the  black  folk  endless 
singing,  shouting,  and  laughter ;  and  saw  on  holidays  black  gentle- 
men and  ladies  arrayed  in  siich  splendour  and  coiufort  as  freeborn 
workmen  in  our  towns  seldom  exhibit.  What  a  grin  and  bow  that 
dark  gentleman  performed,  who  was  the  porter  at  the  colonel's, 
when  he  said,  "  you  write  your  name,  mas'r,  else  I  will  forgot."  I 
am  not  going  into  the  slavery  question ;  I  am  not  an  advocate  for 
"  the  institution,"  as  I  know,  madam,  by  that  angry  toss  of  your 
iiead,  you  are  about  to  declare  me  to  be.  For  domestic  purjtoses, 
my  dear  lady,  it  seemed  to  me  about  the  dearest  institution  that 
(>an  be  devised.  In  a  house  in  a  Southern  city  you  will  find  fifteen 
negroes  doing  the  work  which  John,  the  cook,  the  housemaid,  and 
the  help,  do  perfectly  in  your  own  comfortable  London  house.  And 
these  fifteen  negroes  are  the  pick  of  a  family  of  some  eighty  or 
ninety  :  twenty  are  too  sick,  or  too  old  for  work,  let  us  say  ;  twenty 
too  clumsy ;  twenty  are  too  young,  and  have  to  be  nursed  and 
watched  by  ten  more.*     And  master  has  to  maintain  the  immense 

*  This  was  an  account,  given  by  a  )^a>ntleman  at  Riclimond  of  his  establish- 
ment. Six  European  servants  vvotikl  liave  kept  his  house  and  stables  well, 
"  His  farm,"  he  said,  "  barely  sufficed  to  maintain  the  negroes  residing  on  it." 


326 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 


crew  to  do  the  work  of  half-a-dozcn  willing  hands.  No,  no ;  let 
Mitchell,  the  exile  from  poor  dear  enslaved  Ireland,  wish  for  a  gang 
of  "  flit  niggers  "  ;  I  would  as  soon  you  should  make  me  a  present 
of  a  score  of  Bengal  elephants,  when  I  need  but  a  single  stout  horse 
to  pull  my  brougham. 

How  hospitable  they  were,  those  Southern  men  !  In  the  North 
itself  the  welcome  was  not  kinder,  as  I,  who  have  eaten  Northei-n 
and  Southern  salt  can  testify.  As  for  New  Orleans,  in  spring- 
time,— ^just   when   the   orchards  were  flushing  over   with  peach- 


blossoms,  and  the  sweet  herbs  came  to  flavour  the  juleps — it 
seemed  to  me  the  city  of  the  world  where  you  can  eat  and  drink 
the  most  and  suffer  the  least.  At  Bordeaux  itself,  claret  is  not 
better  to  drink  than  at  New  Orleans.  It  was  all  good — believe  an 
expert  Robert — from  the  half-dollar  Medoc  of  the  public  hf)tel  table, 
to  the  private  gentleman's  choicest  wine.  Claret  is,  somehow,  good 
in  that  gifted  place  at  dinner,  at  supper,  and  at  breakfast  in  the 
morning.  It  is  good:  it  is  superabundant— and  there  is  nothing 
to  pay.     Find  me  speaking  ill  of  such  a  country  !     When  I   do, 


A    MISSISSIPPI    BUBBLE  327 

pone  me  pigris  camjris :  smother  me  in  a  <lc.sert,  or  let  Mississippi 
or  Garonne  drown  me  !  At  tliat  comfortable  tavern  on  Pontcliar- 
train  we  had  a  boui/laMisse  than  which  a  better  was  never  eaten  at 
Marseilles :  and  not  tlic  least  headache  in  the  morning,  I  give  you 
my  word ;  on  the  contrary,  you  only,  wake  with  a  sweet  refreshing 
thirst  for  claret  and  water.  They  say  there  is  fever  there  in  tlie 
autumn  :  but  not  in  the  si)ring-time,  when  the  peach-blossoms  blush 
over  the  orchards,  and  the  sweet  herbs  come  to  flavour  tlie  juleps. 

I  was  bound  from  New  Orleans  to  Saint  Louis ;  and  our  walk 
was  constantly  on  the  Levee,  whence  we  could  see  a  hundred  of 
those  huge  white  Mississippi  steamers  at  their  moorings  in  the 
river :  "  Look,"  said  my  friend  Lochlomond  to  me,  as  we  stood 
one  day  on  the  quay — "  look  at  that  post  !  Look  at  that  coffee- 
house behind  it !  Sir,  last  year  a  steamer  blew  up  in  the  river 
yonder,  just  where  you  see  tliose  men  i)ulling  off  in  a  boat.  By 
that  post  where  you  are  standing  a  mule  was  cut  in  two  by  a  frag- 
ment of  the  burst  machinery,  and  a  bit  of  the  chimney-stove  in 
tliat  first-floor  window  of  the  cofi'ec-house  killed  a  negro  who  was 
cleaning  knives  in  the  top  room  ! "  I  looked  at  the  post,  at  tlie 
coff"ee-house  window,  at  the  steamer  in  which  I  was  going  to 
embark,  at  my  friend,  with  a  pleasing  interest  not  divested  of 
melancholy.  Yesterday  it  was  the  mule,  thinks  I,  who  was  cut 
in  two :  it  may  be  eras  mihi.  Wliy,  in  the  same  little  sket(;h- 
book  there  is  a  drawing  of  an  Alabama  river  steamer  which  blew 
up  on  the  very  next  voyage  after  that  in  which  your  humble 
servant  was  on  board  !     Had  I  but  waited  another  week,  I  miglit 

have These  incidents  give  a  queer  zest  to  the  voyage  down 

the  life-stream  in  America.  When  our  huge,  tall,  white,  pasteboard 
castle  of  a  steamer  began  to  work  up  stream,  every  limb  in  her 
creaked,  and  groaned,  and  quivered,  so  that  "you  might  fancy  she 
would  burst  right  off".  Would  she  hold  together,  or  would  she 
split  into  ten  millions  of  shivers  ?  0  my  home  and  children  ! 
Would  your  humble  servant's  body  be  cut  in  two  across  yonder 
chain  on  tlie  Levee,  or  be  precipitated  into  yonder  first-floor,  so 
as  to  damage  the  chest  of  a  black  man  cleaning  boots  at  the 
window  ?  The  black  man  is  safe  for  me,  thank  goodness.  But 
you  see  the  little  accident  might  liave  happened.  It  has  happened ; 
and  if  to  a  mule,  why  not  to  a  more  docile  animal?  On  our 
journey  up  the  Mississippi,  I  give  you  my  honour  we  were  on  fire 
three  times,  and  burned  our  cook-room  down.  The  deck  at  night 
was  a  great  firework — the  chimney  spouted  myriads  of  stars, 
which  fell  blackening  on  our  garments,  sparkling  on  to  the  deck,  or 
gleaming  into  the  mighty  streana  through  w!u('h  we  laboured — the 
mighty  yellow  stream  with  all  its  sna^s. 


328  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

How  I  kept  up  my  courage  through  these  dangers  shall  now  be 
narrated.  The  excellent  landlord  of  the  "  Saint  Charles  Hotel," 
when  I  was  going  away,  begged  me  to  accept  two  bottles  of  the 
very  finest  Cognac,  with  his  compliments ;  and  I  found  them  in  my 
state-room  with  my  luggage.  Lochlomond  came  to  see  me  off,  and, 
as  he  squeezed  my  hand  at  parting,  "  Roundabout,"  says  he,  "  the 
wine  mayn't  be  very  good  on  board,  so  I  have  brought  a  dozen-case 
of  the  M^doc  which  you  liked  ; "  and  we  grasped  together  the  hands 
of  friendship  and  farewell.  Whose  boat  is  this  pulling  up  to  the 
ship  1  It  is  our  friend  Glenlivat,  who  gave  lis  the  dinner  on  Lake 
Pontchar train.  "  Roundabout,"  says  he,  "  we  have  tried  to  do 
what  we  covdd  for  you,  my  boy  ;  and  it  has  been  done  de  hon  coeur  " 
(I  detect  a  kind  tremulousness  in  the  good  fellow's  voice  as  he 
speaks).  "  I  say — hem  ! — the  a — the  wine  isn't  too  good  on 
board,  so  I've  brouglit  you  a  dozen  of  Mi^doc  for  your  voyage,  you 
know.  And  God  bless  you ;  and  when  I  come  to  London  in  May 
I  shall  come  and  see  you.  Hallo  !  here's  Johnson  come  to  see 
you  off,  too  !  " 

As  I  am  a  miserable  sinner,  when  Johnson  grasped  my  hand, 
he  said,  "  Mr.  Roundabout,  you  can't  be  sure  of  the  Avine  on  board 
these  steamers,  so  I  thought  I  would  bring  you  a  little  case  of  tliat 
light  claret  which  you  liked  at  my  house."  Et  de  trots !  No 
wonder  I  could  face  the  Mississippi  with  so  much  courage  supplied 
to  me  !  Where  are  you,  honest  friends,  who  gave  me  of  your  kind- 
ness and  your  cheer?  May  I  be  considerably  boiled,  blown  up, 
and  snagged,  if  I  si-»eak  hard  words  of  you.  May  claret  turn  sour 
ere  I  do  ! 

Mounting  the  stream  it  chanced  that  we  had  very  few  pas- 
sengers. How  far  is  the  famous  city  of  Memphis  from  New 
Orleans  %  I  do  not  mean  the  Egyptian  Memphis,  but  the  American 
Memphis,  from  which  to  the  American  Cairo  we  slowly  toiled  up 
the  river — to  the  American  Cairo  at  the  confluence  of  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  rivers.  And  at  Cairo  we  parted  company  from  the 
boat,  and  from  some  famous  and  gifted  fellow-passengers  who  joined 
us  at  Memphis,  and  whose  pictures  we  had  seen  in  many  cities  of 
the  South.  I  do  not  give  the  names  of  these  remarkable  people, 
xuiless,  by  some  wondrous  chance,  in  inventing  a  name  I  should 
light  upon  tliat  real  one  which  some  of  them  bore  ;  but  if  you  please 
I  will  say  that  our  fellow-passengers  whom  we  took  in  at  Memphis 
were  no  less  personages  than  the  Vermont  Giant  and  the  famous 
Bearded  Lady  of  Kentucky  and  her  son.  Their  pictures  I  had 
seen  in  many  cities  through  which  I  travelled  witli  my  own  little 
performance.  I  think  tlie  Vermont  Giant  was  a  trifle  taller  in  his 
pictures  tlian  he  was  in  life  (being  represented  in  the  former  as,  at 


A    MISSISSIPPI    BUBBLE  329 

least,  some  two  stories  high) ;  hut  the  Lady's  prodigious  heard 
received  no  more  than  justice  at  the  hands  of  the  painter;  that 
portion  of  it  wliich  I  saw  being  really  most  bla(;k,  rich,  and  curly — 
I  say  the  portion  of  heard,  for  this  modest  or  prudent  Avoman  kept 
I  don't  know  how  nuich  of  the  beard  covered  up  with  a  red  hand- 
kerchief, from  which  I  suppose  it  only  emerged  when  she  went  to 
bed,  or  when  she  exliil)ited  it  professionally. 

The  Giant,  I  must  think,  was  an  overrated  giant.  I  have 
known  gentlemen,  not  in  the  profession,  better  made,  and  I  sliould 
say  taller,  than  the  Vermont  gentleman.  A  strange  feeling  I  used 
to  have  at  meals  ;  wlien,  on  looking  round  our  little  society,  I  saw 
the  Giant,  the  Bearded  Lady  of  Kentucky,  the  little  Bearded  Boy 
of  three  years  old,  the  Captain  (this  I  think ;  but  at  tliis  distance 
of  time  I  would  not  likg  to  make  the  statement  on  affidavit),  and 
the  thi"ee  otlier  passengers,  all  with  their  knives  in  tlieir  mouths 
making  play  at  the  dinner — a  strange  feeling  I  say  it  was,  and  as 
though  I  was  in  a  castle  of  ogres.  But,  after  all,  why  so  squeamish  ? 
A  few  scores  of  years  back,  the  finest  gentlemen  and  ladies  of 
Europe  did  the  like.  Belinda  ate  with  her  knife  ;  and  Saccharissa 
had  only  that  weapon,  or  a  two-pronged  fork,  or  a  spoon,  for  her 
peas.  Have  you  ever  looked  at  Gilray's  print  of  tlie  Prince  of 
Wales,  a  languid  voluptuary,  retiring  after  his  meal,  and  noted  the 
toothpick  which  he  uses "?  .  .  .  You  are  right,  madam ;  I  own 
that  the  subject  is  revolting  and  terrible.  I  will  not  pursue  it. 
Only — allow  that  a  gentleman,  in  a  shaky  steamboat,  on  a  dangerous 
river,  in  a  far-oft"  country,  which  caught  fire  three  times  during  the 
voyage — (of  course  I  mean  the  steamboat,  not  the  country) — seeing 
a  giant,  a  voracious  supercargo,  a  bearded  lady,  and  a  little  boy,  not 
three  years  of  age,  with  a  chin  already  quite  black  and  curly,  all 
])lying  their  victuals  down  their  throats  with  their  knives — allow, 
madam,  that  in  such  a  company  a  man  had  a  right  to  feel  a  little 
nervous.  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  ever  remarked  the 
Indian  jugglers  swallowing  their  knives,  or  seen,  as  I  have,  a  whole 
table  of  people  performing  the  same  trick  ;  but  if  you  look  at  their 
eyes  when  they  do  it,  I  assure  you  there  is  a  roll  in  them  which  is 
dreadful. 

Apart  from  this  usage,  wliich  they  practise  in  common  with 
many  thousand  most  estimable  citizens,  the  Vermont  gentleman, 
and  the  Kentucky  whiskered  lady — or  did  I  say  the  reverse? — 
Avhichever  you  like,  my  dear  sir — were  quite  quiet,  modest,  unas- 
suming people.  She  sat  working  with  her  needle,  if  I  remember 
right.  He,  I  suppose,  slept  in  the  great  cabin,  which  was  seventy 
feet  long  at  the  least,  nor,  I  am  bound  to  say,  did  I  hear  in  the 
night  any  snores  or  roars,  such  as  you  would  fancy  ought  to  accoui- 


330  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

pany  the  sleep  of  ogres.  Nay,  this  giant  had  quite  a  small  appetite 
(unless,  to  be  sure,  lie  went  forward  and  ate  a  sheep  or  two  in 
private  with  his  horrid  knife— oh,  the  dreadfid  thought;  but  in 
public,  I  say,  he  had  quite  a  delicate  appetite),  and  was  also  a 
teetotaler.  I  don't  remember  to  have  heard  tlie  lady's  voice,  though 
I  might,  not  unnaturally,  have  been  curious  to  hear  it.  Was  her 
voice  a  deep,  rich,  magnificent  bass;  or  was  it  soft,  fluty,  and 
mild "?  I  shall  never  know  now.  Even  if  she  comes  to  this  country, 
I  shall  never  go  and  see  her.     I  have  seen  her,  and  for  nothing. 

You  would  have  ftineied  that  as,  after  all,  we  were  only  some 
half-dozen  on  board,  slie  might  have  dispensed  with  her  red  hand- 
kerchief, and  talked,  and  eaten  her  dinner  in  comfort :  but  in  cover- 
ing her  chin  there  was  a  kind  of  modesty.  That  beard  was  her 
profession  :  that  beard  brought  the  public  to  see  her :  out  of  her 
business  she  wished  to  put  that  beard  aside  as  it  were  :  as  a  barrister 
would  wish  to  put  off  his  wig.  I  know  some  who  carry  theirs  into 
private  life,  and  wlio  mistake  you  and  me  for  jury-boxes  when  they 
address  us :  but  these  are  not  your  modest  barristers,  not  your  true 
gentlemen. 

Well,  I  own  I  respected  the  lady  for  the  modesty  with  which, 
iier  public  business  over,  she  retired  into  private  life.  She  respected 
her  life,  and  her  beard.  That  beard  having  done  its  day's  work,  she 
puts  it  away  in  a  handkerchief;  and  becomes,  as  far  as  in  her  lies,  a 
private  ordinary  person.  All  public  men  and  women  of  good  sense, 
I  should  tliink,  have  this  modesty.  When,  for  instance,  in  my 
small  way,  poor  Mrs.  Brown  comes  simpering  up  to  me,  with  her 
album  in  one  hand,  a  pen  in  the  otiier,  and  says,  "  Ho,  ho,  dear  Mr. 
Roundabout,  write  us  one  of  your  amusing,"  &c.  &c.,  my  beard  drops 
behind  my  handkerchief  instantly.  Why  am  I  to  wag  my  chin  and 
grin  for  Mrs.  Brown's  good  pleasure  ?  My  dear  madam,  I  have  been 
making  faces  all  day.  It  is  my  profession.  I  do  my  comic  business 
with  the  greatest  pains,  seriousness,  and  trouble :  and  with  it  make, 
I  hope,  a  not  dishonest  livelihood.  If  you  ask  Monsieur  Blondin 
to  tea,  you  don't  have  a  rope  stretched  from  your  garret  window  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  square,  and  request  Monsieur  to  take  his  tea 
out  on  the  centre  of  the  rope  1  I  lay  my  hand  on  this  waistcoat, 
and  declare  that  not  once  in  the  course  of  our  voyage  together  did  I 
allow  the  Kentucky  Giant  to  suppose  I  was  speculating  on  his 
stature,  or  the  Bearded  Lady  to  surmise  tliat  I  wished  to  peep  under 
the  handkerchief  which  muffled  the  lower  part  of  her  face. 

"And  the  more  fool  you,"  says  some  cynic.  (Faugh,  those 
cynics,  I  hate  'em  )  Don't  you  know,  sir,  that  a  man  of  genius 
is  j)leased  to  have  his  genius  recognised ;  that  a  beauty  likes  to  be 
julmired.;   that  an  actor  }ike^  to  be  applauded;   that  s^oqt   old 


A    MISSISSIPPI    BUBBLE  331 

Wellington  himself  was  pleased,  an<l  smiled  when  the  people  cheered 
him  as  he  passed?  Suppose  you  had  paid  some  respectful  elegant 
compHment  to  that  lady  1  Suppose  you  had  asked  that  giant  if,  for 
once,  he  would  take  anything  at  the  liquor-bar?  you  might  have 
learned  a  great  deal  of  curious  knowledge  regarding  giants  and 
bearded  ladies,  about  whom  you  evidently  now  know  very  little. 
There  was  that  little  boy  of  three  years  old,  with  a  fine  beard 
already,  and  his  little  legs  and  arms  as  seen  out  of  his  little  frock, 
covered  with  a  dark  down.  What  a  queer  little  capering  satyr ! 
He  was  quite  good-natured,  cliildish,  rather  solemn.  He  had  a  little 
Norval  dress,  I  remember  :  the  drollest  little  Norval. 

I  have  said  the  B.  L.  had  another  child.  Now  this  was  a  little 
girl  of  some  six  years  ohl,  as  fair  and  as  smooth  of  skin,  dear  madam, 
as  your  own  darling  cherubs.  She  wandered  about  the  great  cabin 
quite  melancholy.  No  one  seemed  to  care  for  her.  All  the  family 
affections  Avere  centred  on  Master  Esau  yonder.  His  little  beard 
Avas  beginning  to  be  a  little  fortune  already,  Avhereas  Miss  Rosalba 
was  of  no  good  to  the  family.  No  one  would  pay  a  cent  to  see  her 
little  fair  face.  No  wonder  the  poor  little  maid  was  melancholy. 
As  I  looked  at  her,  I  seemed  to  walk  more  and  more  in  a  fairy  tale, 
and  more  and  more  in  a  cavern  of  ogres.  Was  this  a  little  fondling 
whom  they  had  picked  up  in  some  forest,  where  lie  the  picked  bones 
of  the  queen  her  tender  mother,  and  tlie  tough  old  defunct  monarch 
her  father?  No.  Doubtless  they  were  quite  good-natured  peo])le, 
these.  I  don't  believe  they  were  unkind  to  the  little  girl  Avithout 
the  moustaches.  It  may  have  been  only  my  fancy  that  she  repined 
because  she  had  a  cheek  no  more  bearded  than  a  rose's. 

Would  you  wish  your  own  daughter,  madam,  to  have  a  smooth 
cheek,  a  modest  air,  and  a  gentle  feminine  behaviour,  or  to  be — I 
won't  say  a  whiskered  prodigy,  like  this  Bearded  Lady  of  Kentucky 
— but  a  masculine  wonder,  a  virago,  a  female  personage  of  more  than 
female  strength,  courage,  Avisdom  ?  Some  authors,  Avho  shall  be 
nameless,  are,  I  knoAA',  accused  of  depicting  the  most  feeble,  brainless, 
namby-pamby  heroines,  for  ever  Avhimi)ering  tears  and  prattling 
commonplaces.  You  would  have  the  heroine  of  your  novel  so 
l)eautiful  that  she  should  charm  the  captain  (or  hero,  whoever  he 
may  be)  Avith  her  appearance ;  surprise  and  confound  the  bishop 
Avith  her  learning ;  outride  the  squire  and  get  the  brush,  and,  Avlien 
he  fell  from  his  horse,  Avhip  out  a  lancet  and  bleed  him ;  rescue  from 
fever  and  death  the  poor  cottager's  family  Avliom  the  doctor  had 
given  up  ;  make  tAventy-one  at  the  butts  Avith  the  rifle,  Avhen  the 
poor  captain  only  scored  eighteen  ;  gi\e  him  twenty  in  fifty  at 
billiards  and  beat  h.im  ;  and  draw  tears  from  the  professional  Italian 
people  by  her  exquisite  j'eribrmance  (of  voice  and  violoncello)  in  the 


332  ROUNDABOUT    PAPEHS 

evening; — I  say,  if  a  novelist  would  be  popular  with  ladies — the 
great  novel-readers  of  the  world— this  is  the  sort  of  heroine  who 
would  carry  him  through  half-a-dozen  editions.  Suppose  I  had 
asked  that  Bearded  Lady  to  sing  1  Confess,  now,  miss,  you  would 
not  have  been  displeased  if  I  had  told  you  that  she  had  a  voice  like 
Lablache,  only  ever  so  much  lower. 

My  dear,  you  would  like  to  be  a  heroine  1  You  would  like  to 
travel  in  triumphal  caravans ;  to  see  your  etfigy  placarded  on  city 
walls ;  to  have  your  lev(^es  attended  by  admiring  crowds,  all  crying 
out,  "  Was  there  ever  such  a  wonder  of  a  woman  1 "  You  would 
like  admiration  1  Consider  the  tax  you  pay  for  it.  You  would  be 
alone  were  you  eminent.  Were  you  so  distinguished  from  your 
neighbours — I  will  not  say  by  a  beard  and  whiskers,  that  were 
odious — but  by  a  great  and  remarkable  intellectual  superiority — 
would  you,  do  you  think,  be  any  the  happier "?  Consider  envy.  Con- 
sider solitude.  Consider  the  jealousy  and  torture  of  mind  which  this 
Kentucky  lady  must  feel,  suppose  she  should  hear  that  there  is,  let 
us  say,  a  Missouri  prodigy,  with  a  beard  larger  than  hers.  Consider 
how  she  is  separated  from  her  kind  by  the  possession  of  that  wonder 
of  a  beard.  When  that  beard  grows  grey,  how  lonely  she  will  be, 
the  poor  old  thing !  If  it  falls  off,  the  public  admiration  falls  off 
too ;  and  how  she  will  miss  it — the  compliments  of  tlie  trumpeters, 
the  admiration  of  tlie  crowd,  the  gilded  progress  of  the  car.  I  see 
an  old  woman  alone  in  a  decrepit  old  caravan,  with  cobwebs  on  the 
knocker,  with  a  blistered  ensign  flapping  idly  over  the  door.  Would 
you  like  to  be  tliat  deserted  person  1  Ah,  Chloe  !  To  be  good,  to 
be  simple,  to  be  modest,  to  be  loved,  be  thy  lot.  Be  thankful  tliou 
art  not  tallo',  nor  stronger,  nor  ridier,  ncjr  wiser  than  the  rest  of 
the  v/orld  ! 


M 


ON  LETTS' S  DIARY 


INE  is  one  of  your  No.  12  diaries,  three  shillings  cloth 
boards  ;  silk  limp,  gilt  edges,  three-aud-six ;  French  morocco, 
tuck  ditto,  four-and-six.  It  has  two  pages,  ruled  with  faint 
lines  for  memoranda,  for  every  week,  and  a  ruled  account  at  the 
end,  for  the  twelve  months  from  January  to  December,  where  you 
may  set  down  your  incomings  and  your  expenses.  I  hope  yours, 
my  respected  reader,  are  large ;  that  there  are  many  fine  round 
sums  of  figures  on  each  side  of  the  page  :  liberal  on  the  expenditure 
side,  greater  still  on  the  recei])t.  I  hope,  sir,  you  will  be  "a  better 
man,"  as  they  say,  in  '62  than  in  this  moribund  '61,  whose  career 
of  life  is  just  coming  to  its  terminus.  A  better  man  in  purse  1  in 
body  ?  in  soul's  health  ?  Amen,  good  sir,  in  all.  Who  is  there  so 
good  in  mind,  bod}",  or  estate,  but  bettering  won't  still  be  good  for 
him  ?  0  unknown  Fate,  presiding  over  next  year,  if  you  will  give 
me  better  health,  a  better  appetite,  a  better  digestion,  a  better 
income,  a  better  temper  in  '62  than  you  have  bestowed  in  '61,  I 
think  your  servant  will  be  the  better  for  the  changes.  For  instance,  I 
should  be  the  better  for  a  new  coat.  This  one,  I  acknowle<lge,  is  very 
old.  The  family  says  so.  My  good  friend,  who  amongst  us  would 
not  be  the  better  if  he  Avould  give  up  some  old  habits  1  Yes,  yes. 
You  agree  with  me.  You  take  the  allegory  ?  Alas  !  at  our  time 
of  life  we  don't  like  to  give  up  those  old  habits,  do  we  1  It  is  ill 
to  change.  There  is  the  good  old  loose  easy  slovenly  bedgown, 
laziness,  for  example.  What  man  of  sense  likes  to  fling  it  ofl'  and 
put  on  a  tight  guinde  prim  dress-coat  that  pinches  him  1  There  is 
the  cosy  wraprascal,  seLf-iudulgence — how  easy  it  is  !  How  warm  ! 
How  it  always  seems  to  fit !  You  can  w^alk  out  in  it  ;  you  can  go 
down  to  dinner  in  it.  You  can  say  of  such  what  Tully  says  of  his 
books  :  Pernoctat  nobiscwm,  jieregrinatur,  rusticatur.  It  is  a  little 
slatternly — it  is  a  good  deal  stained — it  isn't  becoming — it  smells 
of  cigar-smoke ;  but,  allons  done  !  let  the  world  call  me  idle  and 
sloven.  I  love  my  ease  better  than  my  neighbour's  opinion.  I  live 
to  please  myself;  not  you,  ]\Ir.  Dandy,  with  yoiu*  supercilious  aiis. 
I  am  a  philosopher.     Perhaps  I  live  in  my  tub,  and  don't  make 


S34  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

any  otlier  use  of  it We  won't  pursue  further  this  unsavoury 

metaphor  ;  but,  with   regard  to   some   of  your   okl   habits,  let  us 
say — 

1.  The  habit  of  being  censorious,  and  speaking  ill  of  your 
neighbours. 

2.  The  habit  of  getting  into  a  passion  with  your  man-servant, 
your  maid-servant,  your  daughter,  wife,  &c. 

3.  Tlie  habit  of  indulging  too  nuich  at  table. 

4.  The  habit  of  smoking  in  the  dining-room  after  dinner. 

5.  The  habit  of  spending  insane  sums  of  money  in  hric-a-hrac, 
tall  copies,  binding,  Elzevirs,  &c.  ;  '20  Port,  outrageously  fine 
horses,  ostentatious  entertainments,  and  what  not.     Or, 

6.  The  habit  of  screwing  meanly,  when  rich,  and  chuckling  over 
the  saving  of  half-a-crown,  whilst  you  are  poisoning  your  friends 
and  family  with  bad  wine. 

7.  The  habit  of  going  to  sleep  immediately  after  dinner,  instead 
of  cheerfully  entertaining  Mrs.  Jones  and  the  family.     Or, 

8.  Ladies  !  The  habit  of  running  up  bills  with  the  milliners, 
and  swindling  pateriamilias  on  the  hoiise  bills. 

9.  The  habit  of  keeping  him  waiting  for  breakfast. 

10.  The  habit  of  sneering  at  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  Miss  Browns, 
because  they  are  not  quite  dit,  monde,  or  quite  so  genteel  as 
Lady  Sniitli. 

11.  The  habit  of  keeping  your  Avretchcd  father  up  at  balls  till 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  wlien  he  lias  to  be  at  his  office  at 
eleven. 

12.  The  habit  of  fighting  with  each  other,  dear  Louisa,  Jane, 
Arabella,  Amelia. 

LS.  The  liabit  of  always  ordering  John  Coachman  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  before  you  want  him. 

Such  habits,  I  say,  sir  or  madam,  if  you  have  had  to  note  in 
your  diary  of  '61,  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt,  you  will  enter 
in  your  pocket-book  of  '62.  There  are  habits  Nos.  4  and  7,  for 
example.  I  am  morally  sure  tliat  some  of  us  will  not  give  up  those 
bad  customs,  though  the  women  cry  oTit  and  grumble,  and  scold 
ever  so  justly.  There  are  habits  Nos.  9  and  13.  I  feel  perfectly 
certain,  my  dear  young  ladies,  that  you  will  continue  to  keep  John 
Coachman  waiting ;  that  you  will  continue  to  give  the  most  satis- 
factory reasons  for  keeping  him  waiting :  and  as  for  (9),  you  will 
show  that  you  once  (on  the  1st  of  April  last,  let  us  say)  came  to 
breakfast  first,  and  that  you  are  always  first  in  conse(iuence. 

Yes ;  in  our  '62  diaries,  I  fear  we  may  all  of  us  make  some 
of  the  '61  entries.  There  is  my  friend  Freehand,  for  instance. 
(Aha  !  Master  Freehand,  how  you  will  laugh  to  find  yourself  here  !) 


ON    LETTS'S    DIARY  S35 

F.  is  in  the  habit  of  spending  a  little,  over  so  little,  more  than  his 
income.  He  shows  j'ou  how  Mrs.  Freeiiand  works,  and  works 
(and  indeed,  Jack  Freehand,  if  you  say  she  is  an  angel,  you  don't 
say  too  nuich  of  hei-) ;  how  they  toil,  and  how  they  mend,  and 
patch,  and  jnuch  ;  and  how  they  canH  live  on  their  means.  And 
I  very  much  fear — nay,  I  will  bet  him  half  a  bottle  of  Gladstone 
14s,  per  dozen  claret — that  the  account  which  is  a  little  on  tlie 
wrong  side  this  year,  will  be  a  little  on  the  wrong  side  in  the  next 
ensuing  year  of  grace. 

A  diary.  Dies.  Hodie.  How  queer  to  read  are  some  of  the 
entries  in  the  journal !  Here  are  the  records  of  dinners  eaten,  and 
gone  the  Avay  of  flesh.  The  lights  burn  blue  somehow,  and  we  sit 
before  the  ghosts  of  victuals.  Hark  at  the  dead  jokes  resurging  ! 
Memory  greets  them  wdth  the  ghost  of  a  smile.  Here  are  the  lists 
of  the  individuals  who  have  dined  at  your  own  humble  table.  The 
agonies  endured  before  and  during  those  entertainments  are  renewed, 
and  smart  again.  AVhat  a  failure  that  si)ecial  grand  dinner  was  ! 
How  those  dreadful  occasional  waiters  did  break  the  old  china  ! 
What  a  dismal  hasli  poor  Llary,  the  cook,  made  of  the  French  dish 
which  she  would  try  out  of  Franca  tell  i  !  How  angry  ]\Ii's.  Pope 
was  at  not  going  down  to  dinner  before  Mrs.  Bishop !  How 
Trimalchio  sneered  at  your  absurd  attcmi)t  to  give  a  feast ;  and 
Harpagon  cried  out  at  your  extravagance  and  ostentation  !  How 
Lady  Almack  bullied  the  other  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  (when 
no  gentlemen  were  present) :  never  asked  you  back  to  dinner  again  : 
left  her  card  by  her  footman  :  and  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of 
your  W'ife  and  daughters  at  Lady  Hustleby's  assembly  !  On  the 
other  hand,  how  easy,  cosy,  merry,  comfortable,  those  little  dinners 
were ;  got  up  at  one  or  two  days'  notice  ;  when  everybody  was 
contented ;  the  soup  as  clear  as  amber ;  the  wine  as  good  as 
Trimalchio's  own  ;  and  the  people  kejjt  their  carriages  waiting,  and 
would  not  go  away  till  midnight ! 

Along  with  tlie  catalogue  of  bygone  pleasures,  balls,  banquets, 
and  the  like,  which  the  pages  record,  comes  a  list  of  much  moie 
importnnt  occurrences,  and  remembrances  of  graver  im])ort.  On 
two  days  of  Dives's  diary  are  printed  notices  that  "  Dividends  are 
due  at  the  Bank."  Let  us  hope,  dear  sir,  that  this  announcement 
considerably  interests  you  ;  in  which  case,  probably,  you  have  no 
need  of  the  almanack-maker's  printed  reminder.  If  you  look  over 
poor  Jack  Reckless's  note-book,  amongst  his  memoranda  of  racing 
odds  given  and  taken,  perhaps  you  may  read  :- — "  Nabbam's  bill 
due  29th  September,  £142,  15s.  6d."  Let  us  trust,  as  the  day  has 
passed,  that  the  little  transaction  here  noted  has  been  satisfactorily 
terminated.     If  you  are  paterfamilias,  and  a  worthy  kind  gentle- 


336  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

man,  no  doubt  you  have  marked  down  on  your  register,  17th 
December  (say),  "  Boys  come  home."  Ah,  how  carefully  that 
blessed  day  is  marked  in  their  little  calendars !  In  my  time  it  used 
to  be,  Wednesday,  13th  November,  "5  weeks  from  the  holidays  ;" 
Wednesday,  20th  November,  "4  weeks  from  the  holidays;"  until 
sluggish  time  sped  on,  and  we  came  to  Wednesday,  18th 
December.  Oh  rapture !  Do  you  remember  pea-shooters  ?  I 
think  we  only  had  them  on  going  home  for  holidays  from  private 
schools — at  public  schools  men  are  too  dignified.  And  then  came 
that  glorious  announcement,  AVednesday,  27th,  "  Papa  took  us  to 
the  pantomime ; "  or  if  not  papa,  perhaps  you  condescended  to  go 
to  the  pit,  under  charge  of  the  footman. 

That  was  near  the  end  of  the  year — and  mamma  gave  you 
a  new  pocket-book,  perhaps,  with  a  little  coin,  God  bless  her, 
in  the  pocket.  And  that  pocket-book  was  for  next  year,  you 
know ;  and  in  that  pocket-book  you  had  to  write  down  that  sad 
day,  Wednesday,  January  24th,  eighteen  hundred  and  never  mind 
what, — when  Doctor  Birch's  young  friends  were  expected  to  re- 
assemble. 

Ah  mc  !  Every  person  who  turns  tliis  page  over  has  his  own 
little  diary,  in  paper  or  ruled  in  his  memory  tablets,  and  in  which 
are  set  down  the  transactions  of  the  now  dying  year.  Boys  and 
men,  we  have  our  calendar,  mothers  and  maidens.  For  example, 
in  your  calendar  pocket-book,  my  good  Eliza,  what  a  sad  sad  day 
that  is  —  how  fondly  and  bitterly  remembered — 'when  your  boy 
went  off  to  his  regiment,  to  India,  to  danger,  to  battle  perhaps. 
What  a  day  was  that  last  day  at  home,  when  the  tall  brother  sat 
yet  amongst  the  family,  the  little  ones  round  about  him  wonder- 
ing at  saddle-boxes,  uniforms,  sword-cases,  gun-cases,  and  other 
wondrous  apparatus  of  war  and  travel  which  poured  in  and  filled 
the  hall ;  tlie  new  dressing-case  for  the  beard  not  yet  grown ;  the 
great  sword-case  at  which  little  brother  Tom  looks  so  admiringly ! 
What  a  dinner  that  was,  that  last  dinner,  when  little  and  grown 
children  assembled  together,  and  all  tried  to  be  cheerful !  What  a 
night  was  that  last  night,  when  the  young  ones  were  at  roost  for 
the  last  time  together  under  the  same  roof,  and  the  mother  lay 
alone  in  her  chamber  counting  the  fatal  hours  as  they  tolled  one 
after  another,  amidst  her  tears,  her  watching,  her  fond  prayers. 
What  a  night  that  was,  and  yet  how  quickly  the  melancholy 
dawn  came  !  Only  too  soon  tlie  sun  rose  over  the  houses.  And 
now  in  a  moment  more  the  city  seemed  to  wake.  The  house  began 
to  stir.  The  family  gathers  together  for  the  last  meal.  For  the 
last  time  in  the  midst  of  them  tlie  widow  kneels  amongst  her  kneel- 
ing children,  and  falters  a  prayer  in  which  she  commits  her  dearest. 


ON    LETTS'S    DIARY  337 

her  eldest  born,  to  the  care  of  the  Father  of  all.  0  night,  what 
tears  you  hide — what  prayers  you  hear !  And  so  the  nights  pass 
and  the  days  succeed,  initil  that  one  conies  when  tears  and  parting 
shall  be  no  more. 

In  your  diary,  as  in  mine,  there  are  days  marked  with  sadness, 
not  for  this  year  only,  but  for  all.  On  a  certain  day — and  the  sun 
perhaps  shining  ever  so  brightly — the  house-mother  comes  down  to 
her  family,  with  a  sad  face,  which  scares  the  children  round  about 
in  the  midst  of  their  laughter  and  prattle.  They  may  have  for- 
gotten— but  she  has  not — a  day  which  came,  twenty  years  ago  it 
may  be,  and  which  she  remembers  only  too  well  :  the  long  night- 
watch  ;  the  dreadful  dawning  and  the  rain  beating  at  the.,  pane ; 
the  infant  speechless,  but  moaning  in  its  little  crib ;  and  then  the 
awful  calm,  the  awful  smile  on  the  sweet  cherub  face,  when  the 
cries  have  ceased,  and  the  little  suffering  breast  heaves  no  more. 
Then  the  children,  as  they  see  their  mother's  face,  remember  this 
was  the  day  on  which  their  little  brother  died.  It  was  before  they 
were  born ;  but  she  remembers  it.  And  as  tliey  pray  together,  it 
seems  almost  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  little  lost  one  was  hovering 
round  the  group.  So  they  pass  away :  friends,  kindred,  the 
dearest-loved,  grown  people,  aged,  intants.  As  we  go  on  the 
downhill  journey,  the  milestones  are  gravestones,  and  on  each 
more  and  more  names  are  written ;  unless  haply  you  live  beyond 
man's  common  age,  when  friends  have  dropped  off,  and,  tottering, 
and  feeble,  and  unpitied,  you  reach  the  termimis  alone. 

In  this  past  year's  diary  is  there  any  precious  day  noted  on 
which  you  have  made  a  new  friend  1  This  is  a  piece  of  good  fortune 
bestowed  but  grudgingly  on  the  old.  After  a  certain  age  a  new 
friend  is  a  wonder,  like  Sarah's  child.  Aged  persons  are  seldom 
capable  of  bearing  friendships.  Do  you  remember  how  warmly 
you  loved  Jack  and  Tom  when  you  were  at  school ;  what  a 
passionate  regard  you  had  for  Ned  when  you  were  at  college,  and 
the  immense  letters  you  wrote  to  each  other  1  How  often  do  you 
write,  now  that  postage  costs  nothing"?  There  is  the  age  of 
blossoms  and  sweet  budding  green ;  the  age  of  generous  summer ; 
the  autumn  when  the  leaves  drop ;  and  then  winter,  shivering  and 
bare.  Quick,  children,  and  sit  at  my  feet :  for  they  are  cold,  very 
cold  :  and  it  seems  as  if  neither  wine  nor  worsted  will  warm  'em. 

In  this  past  year's  diary  is  there  any  dismal  day  noted  in  which 
you  have  lost  a  friend  1  In  mine  there  is.  I  do  not  mean  by 
death.  Those  who  are  gone,  you  have.  Those  who  departed  loving 
you,  love  you  still ;  and  you  love  them  always.  They  are  not  really 
gone,  those  dear  hearts  and  true ;  they  are  only  gone  into  the  next 
room ;  and  you  will  presently  get  up  and  follow  them,  and  yonder 


338  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

door  will  close  upon  you,  and  you  will  be  no  more  seen.  As  I  am 
in  this  cheerful  mood,  I  will  tell  you  a  fine  and  touching  story  of 
a  doctor  which  I  heard  lately.  About  two  years  since  there  was, 
in  our  or  some  other  city,  a  famous  doctor,  into  whose  consulting- 
room  crowds  came  daily,  so  that  they  miglit  be  healed.  Now  this 
doctor  had  a  suspicion  that  there  was  something  vitally  wrong  with 
himself,  and  he  went  to  consult  another  famous  physician  at  Dublin, 
or  it  may  be  at  Edinburgh.  And  he  of  Edinburgh  punched  his 
comrade's  sides ;  and  listened  at  his  heart  and  lungs ;  and  felt  his 
pulse,  I  suppose  ;  and  looked  at  his  tongue  ;  and  when  he  had  done. 
Doctor  London  said  to  Doctor  Edinburgh,  "  Doctor,  how  long  have 
I  to  live  % "  And  Doctor  Edinburgh  said  to  Doctor  London, 
"  Doctor,  you  may  last  a  year." 

Then  Doctor  London  came  home,  knowing  that  what  Doctor 
Edinburgh  said  was  true.  And  he  made  up  his  accounts,  with  man 
and  Heaven,  I  trust.  And  he  visited  his  patients  as  usual.  And 
he  went  about  healing,  and  cheering,  and  soothing  and  doctoring; 
and  thousands  of  sick  peojde  were  benefited  by  him.  And  he  said 
not  a  word  to  his  family  at  home  ;  but  lived  amongst  them  cheerful 
and  tender,  and  calm,  and  loving ;  though  he  knew  the  night  was 
at  hand  when  he  should  see  them  and  work  no  more. 

And  it  was  winter  time,  and  they  came  and  told  him  that  some 
man  at  a  distance — very  sick,  but  very  rich — wanted  him  ;  and, 
though  Doctor  London  knew  that  he  Avas  himself  at  death's  door, 
he  went  to  the  sick  man ;  for  he  knew  the  large  fee  would  be  good 
for  his  children  after  him.  And  he  died  ;  and  his  family  never  knew, 
until  he  was  gone,  that  he  had  been  long  aware  of  the  inevitable 
doom. 

This  is  a  cheerful  carol  for  Christmas,  is  it  not  %  You  see,  in 
regard  to  these  Roundabout  discourses,  I  never  know  whether  they 
are  to  be  merry  or  dismal.  My  hobby  has  the  bit  in  his  mouth ; 
goes  his  own  way ;  and  sometimes  trots  through  a  park,  and  some- 
times paces  by  a  cemetery.  Two  days  since  came  the  printer's 
little  emissary,  with  a  note  saying,  "  We  are  Avaiting  for  the  Round- 
about Paper  !  "  A  Roundabout  Paper  about  what  or  whom  %  How 
stale  it  has  become,  that  printed  jollity  about  Christmas  !  Carols, 
and  wassail-bowls,  and  holly,  and  mistletoe,  and  yule-logs  de  com- 
mande — what  heaps  of  these  have  we  not  had  for  years  past ! 
Well,  year  after  year  the  season  comes.  Come  frost,  come  thaw, 
come  snow,  come  rain,  year  after  year  my  neighbour  the  parson  has 
to  make  his  sermon.  They  are  getting  together  the  bonbons,  iced 
cakes,  Christmas  trees  at  Fortnum  and  Mason's  now.  The  genii 
of  the  theatres  are  composing  the  Christmas  pantomime,  which  our 
young  folk  will  see  and  note  anon  in  their  little  diaries. 


ON    LETTS'S    DIARY  33(} 

And  now,  brethren,  may  I  conclude  this  discourse  with  an 
extract  out  of  that  great  diary,  tlie  newspaper  1  I  read  it  but 
yesterday,  and  it  has  mingled  with  all  my  thoughts  since  then. 
Here  are  the  two  paragraphs,  which  appeared  following  each 
other : — 

"  Mr.  R.,  the  Advocate-General  of  Calcutta,  has  been  appointed 
to  the  post  of  Legislative  Member  of  tiie  Council  of  the  Governor- 
General." 

"Sir  R.  S.,  Agent  to  the  Governor-General  for  Central  India, 
died  on  the  29th  of  October,  of  bronchitis." 

These  two  men,  whose  different  fates  are  recorded  in  two  para- 
graphs and  half-a-dozen  lines  of  the  same  newspaper,  were  sisters' 
sons.  In  one  of  the  stories  by  the  present  writer,  a  man  is  described 
tottering  "  up  the  steps  of  the  ghaut,"  having  just  parted  with  his 
child,  whom  he  is  despatching  to  England  from  India.  I  wrote 
this,  remembering  in  long  long  distant  days,  such  a  ghaut,  or  river- 
stair,  at  Calcutta ;  and  a  day  when,  down  those  steps,  to  a  boat 
which  was  in  waiting,  came  two  children,  whose  mothers  remained 
on  the  shore.  One  of  those  ladies  was  never  to  see  her  boy  more  ; 
and  he,  too,  is  just  dead  in  India,  "  of  bronchitis,  on  the  29t]i 
October."  We  were  first-cousins ;  liad  been  little  playmates  and 
friends  from  the  time  of  our  birth  ;  and  the  first  house  in  London  to 
which  I  was  taken,  was  that  of  our  aunt,  the  mother  of  his  Honour 
the  Member  of  Council.  His  Honour  was  even  then  a  gentleman 
of  the  long  robe,  being,  in  truth,  a  baby  in  arms.  We  Indian 
children  were  consigned  to  a  school  of  which  our  deluded  parents 
had  heard  a  favourable  rejiort,  but  which  was  governed  by  a  horrible 
little  tyrant,  who  made  our  young  lives  so  miserable  that  I  re- 
member kneeling  by  my  little  bed  of  a  night,  and  saying,  "  Pi'ay 
God,  I  may  dream  of  my  mother !  "  Thence  we  went  to  a  public 
school ;  and  my  cousin  to  Addiscombe  and  to  India. 

"  For  thirty-two  years,"  the  paper  says,  "  Sir  Richmond  Shake- 
spear  faithfully  and  devotedly  served  the  Government  of  India,  and 
during  that  period  but  once  visited  England,  for  a  few  months  and 
on  public  duty.  In  his  military  capacity  he  saw  much  service,  was 
present  in  eight  general  engagements,  and  was  badly  wounded  in 
the  last.  In  1840,  when  a  young  lieutenant,  he  had  the  rare  good 
fortune  to  be  the  means  of  rescuing  from  almost  hopeless  slavery  in 
Khiva  416  subjects  of  the  Emperor  of  Russia;  and,  but  two  years 
later,  greatly  contributed  to  the  happy  recovery  of  our  own  prisoners 
from  a  similar  fate  in  Cabul.     Throughout  his  career  this  officer 


340  KOUNPABOUT    PAPERS 

was  ever  ready  and  zealous  for  the  public  service,  and  freely  risked 
life  and  liberty  in  the  discharge  of  liis  duties.  Lord  Canning,  to 
mark  his  high  sense  of  Sir  Richmond  Shakespear's  public  services, 
had  lately  otfered  him  the  Chief  Commissionership  of  Mysore,  which 
he  had  accepted,  and  was  about  to  undertake,  when  death  ter- 
minated his  career." 

When  he  came  to  London  the  cousins  and  playfellows  of  early 
Indian  days  met  once  again,  and  shook  hands.  "  Can  I  do  any- 
tliing  for  you  1 "  I  remember  the  kind  fellow  asking.  He  was 
always  asking  that  question :  of  all  kinsmen ;  of  all  widows  and 
orphans ;  of  all  the  poor ;  of  young  men  who  might  need  his  purse 
or  his  service.  I  saw  a  young  officer  yesterday  to  whom  the  first 
words  Sir  Richmond  Shakespear  wrote  on  his  arrival  in  India  were, 
"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  1 "  His  purse  was  at  the  command  of 
all.  His  kind  hand  was  always  ojjen.  It  was  a  gracious  fate  which 
sent  him  to  rescue  widows  and  captives.  Where  could  they  have 
had  a  champion  more  chivalrous,  a  protector  more  loving  and 
tender  1 

I  write  down  his  name  in  my  little  book,  among  those  of  others 
dearly  loved,  who,  too,  have  been  summoned  hence.  And  so  we 
meet  and  part ;  we  struggle  and  succeed  ;  or  we  fail  and  drop 
unknown  on  the  way.  As  we  leave  the  fond  mother's  knee,  the 
rough  trials  of  childhood  and  boyhood  begin;  and  then  manhood 
is  upon  us,  and  the  battle  of  life,  with  its  chances,  perils,  wounds, 
defeats,  distinctions.  And  Fort  William  guns  are  saluting  in  one 
man's  honour,*  while  the  troops  are  firing  the  last  volleys  over  the 
other's  grave — over  the  grave  of  the  brave,  the  gentle,  the  faithful 
Christian  soldier. 

*  W.  R.  obiit  March  22,  1862. 


ON  HALF  A   LOAF  . 

A   LETTER    TO    MESSRS.    BROADWAY,    BATTERY    &    CO.,    OF 
NEW    YORK,    BANKERS 

IS  it  all  over  %  Maj^  we  lock  up  the  case  of  instruments  1  Have 
we  signed  our  wills ;  settled  up  our  affairs  ;  pretended  to  talk 
and  rattle  quite  cheerfully  to  the  women  at  dinner,  so  that  they 
should  not  be  alarmed  ;  sneaked  away  under  some  pretext,  and 
looked  at  the  children  sleeping  in  their  beds  with  their  little  uncon- 
scious thumbs  in  their  mouths,  and  a  flush  on  the  soft-pillowed 
cheek ;  made  every  arrangement  with  Colonel  MacTurk,  who  acts  as 
our  second,  and  knows  the  other  principal  a  great  deal  too  well  to 
think  he  will  ever  give  in  ;  invented  a  monstrous  figment  about  going 
to  shoot  pheasants  with  Mac  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  soothe  the 
anxious  fears  of  the  dear  mistress  of  the  house ;  early  as  the  hour 
apj)ointed  for  the — the  little  affau* — was,  have  we  been  awake  hours 
and  hours  sooner ;  risen  before  daylight,  with  a  faint  hope,  jjcrliaps, 
that  MacTurk  might  have  come  to  some  arrangement  with  the  other 
side ;  at  seven  o'clock  (confound  his  ]»unctuality  !)  heard  his  cab- 
wheel  at  the  door,  and  let  him  in  looking  ])erfectly  trim,  fresh,  jolly, 
and  well  shaved;  diiven  off  with  him  in  the  cold  morning,  alter  a 
very  unsatisfactory  breakfast  of  coffee  and  stale  bread-and-lmtter 
(which  choke,  somehow,  in  the  swallowing) ;  driven  otf  to  Worm- 
Avood  Scrubs  in  the  cold,  muddy,  misty,  moonshiny  morning ; 
stepped  out  of  the  cab,  where  Mac  has  bid  the  man  to  halt  on  a 
retired  spot  in  tlie  conunon ;  in  one  minute  more,  seen  another  cab 
arrive,  from  which  descend  two  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  has  a  case 
like  MacTurk's  under  his  arm  ;— looked  round  and  round  the  solitude, 
and  seen  not  one  single  sign  of  a  policeman — no,  no  moi'e  than  in  a 
row  in  London  ; — depi'ecated  the  horrible  necessity  which  drives 
civilised  men  to  the  use  of  powder  and  bullet ; — taken  ground  as 
firmly  as  may  be,  and  looked  on  whilst  Mac  is  neatly  loading  his 
weapons ;  and  when  all  was  ready,  and  one  looked  for  the  decisive 
One,  Two,  Tlu'ce — have  we  ever  heard  Captain  OToole  (the  second 
')f  the  other  principal)  walk  up,  and  say  :  "  Colonel  MacTurk,  I  aui 


542  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

desired  by  my  principal  to  declare  at  this  eleventh — this  twelfth 
hour,  tliat  he  is  willing  to  own  that  he  sees  he  has  been  wrong  in 
the  dispute  which  has  arisen  between  him  and  your  friend ;  that  he 
apologises  for  offensive  expressions  which  he  has  used  in  the  heat  of 
the  quarrel ;  and  regrets  the  course  he  lias  taken  "  ?  If  something 
like  this  has  happened  to  you,  however  great  your  courage,  you 
have  been  glad  not  to  fight ; — however  accurate  your  aim,  you  have 
been  pleased  not  to  fire. 

On  the  sixth  day  of  January  in  this  year  sixty-two,  wliat 
hundreds  of  thousands — I  may  say,  what  millions  of  Englishmen, 
were  in  the  position  of  the  personage  here  sketched — Christian  men, 
I  hope,  shocked  at  the  dreadful  necessity  of  battle ;  aware  of  the 
horrors  which  the  conflict  must  produce,  and  yet  feeling  that  the 
moment  was  come,  and  that  there  was  no  arbitrament  left  but  that 
of  steel  and  cannon  !  My  reader,  perhaps,  has  been  in  America.  If 
he  has,  he  knows  what  good  people  are  to  be  found  there ;  how 
polished,  how  generous,  how  gentle,  how  courteous.  But  it  is  not 
the  voices  of  these  you  liear  in  the  roar  of  hate,  defiance,  folly,  false- 
hood, which  comes  to  us  across  the  Atlantic.  You  can't  hear  gentle 
voices  ;  very  many  who  could  speak  are  afraid.  Men  must  go 
forward,  or  be  crushed  by  tlie  maddened  crowd  behind  them.  I 
suppose  after  the  perpetration  of  that  act  of — what  shall  we  call  it  1 
— ^of  sudden  wai-,  which  Wilkes  did,  and  Everett  approved,  most  of  us 
believed  that  battle  was  inevitable.  Who  has  not  read  the  American 
papers  for  six  weeks  past  1  Did  you  ever  think  the  United  States 
Government  would  give  up  those  Commissioners  1  I  never  did,  for 
my  part.  It  seems  to  me  the  United  States  Government  have  done 
tlie  most  courageous  a(;t  of  the  war.  Before  that  act  was  done, 
what  an  excitement  prevailed  in  London  !  In  every  Club  there 
was  a  parliament  sitting  in  permanence :  in  every  domestic  gathering 
this  subject  was  sure  to  form  the  main  part  of  the  talk.  Of  course 
I  have  seen  many  people  who  have  travelled  in  America,  and  heard 
tliem  on  this  matter — friends  of  the  South,  friends  of  the  Nortli, 
friends  of  peace,  and  American  stock-holders  in  plenty. — "They  will 
never  give  up  the  men,  sir,"  that  was  the  opinion  on  all  sides ;  and, 
if  they  would  not,  we  knew  what  was  to  happen. 

For  weeks  past  this  nightmare  of  war  has  been  riding  us.  The 
City  was  already  gloomy  enough.  When  a  great  domestic  grief  and 
misfortune  visits  the  chief  person  of  the  State,  the  heart  of  the 
people,  too,  is  sad  and  awe-stricken.  It  might  be  this  sorrow  and 
trial  were  but  presages  of  greater  trials  and  sorrow  to  come.  What 
if  the  sorrow  of  war  is  to  be  added  to  the  other  calamity  1  Such 
forebodings  have  formed  the  theme  of  many  a  man's  talk,  and 
(larkened  many  a  fireside.     Then  came  the  rapid  orders  for  ships  to 


ON    HALF    A    LOAF  343 

arm  and  troops  to  depart.  How  many  of  us  have  had  to  gay  fare- 
well to  friends  whom  duty  called  away  with  their  regiments  ;  on 
whom  we  strove  to  look  cheerfully,  as  Ave  shook  their  hands,  it 
might  be  for  the  last  time ;  and  whom  our  thoughts  depicted,  tread- 
ing the  snows  of  the  immense  Canadian  frontier,  where  their  in- 
trepid little  band  might  have  to  face  the  assaults  of  other  enemies 
than  winter  and  rougli  weather !  I  went  to  a  play  one  night,  and 
protest  I  hardly  know  what  was  the  entertainment  which  passed 
before  my  eyes.  In  the  next  stall  was  an  American  gentleman,  who 
knew  me.  "  Good  heavens,  sir ! "  I  thought,  "  is  it  decreed  that 
you  and  I  are  to  be  authorised  to  murder  each  other  next  week  ; 
that  my  people  shall  be  bombarding  your  cities,  destroying  your 
navies,  making  a  hideous  desolation  of  your  coast ;  that  our  peaceful 
frontiers  shall  be  subject  to  fire,  rapine,  and  murder T'  "They  will 
never  give  up  the  men,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  They  will  never 
give  up  the  men,"  said  the  American.  And  the  Cliristmas  piece 
which  the  actors  were  playing  proceeded  like  a  piece  in  a  dream. 
To  make  the  grand  comic  performance  doubly  comic,  my  neighbour 
presently  informed  me  how  one  of  the  best  friends  I  had  in  America 
— the  most  hospitable,  kindly,  amiable  of  men,  from  whom  I  had 
twice  received  tlie  warmest  welcome  and  the  most  delightful  hosj)i- 
tality — was  a  prisoner  in  Fort  Warren,  on  charges  by  which  his 
life  perhaps  might  be  risked.  I  think  that  was  the  most  dismal 
Christmas  fun  which  these  eyes  ever  looked  on. 

Carry  out  that  notion  a  little  farther,  and  depict  ten  thousand, 
a  hundred  thousand  homes  in  England  saddened  by  the  thought  of 
the  coming  calamity,  and  oppressed  by  the  pervading  gloom.  My 
next-door  neiglibour  ])erhaps  has  parted  with  her  son.  Now  the 
ship  in  which  he  is,  with  a  thousand  brave  comrades,  is  ploughing 
through  the  stormy  midnight  ocean.  Presently  (under  a  flag  we 
know  of)  the  thin  red  line  in  whicli  her  boy  forms  a  speck,  is  wind- 
ing its  way  through  the  vast  Canadian  snows.  Another  neighbour's 
boy  is  not  gone,  but  is  expecting  orders  to  sail ;  and  some  one  else, 
besides  the  circle  at  home  maybe,  is  in  prayer  and  terror,  thinking 
of  the  summons  which  calls  the  young  sailor  away.  By  firesides 
modest  and  splendid,  all  over  the  three  kingdoms,  that  sorrow  is 
keeping  watch,  and  myriads  of  hearts  beating  with  that  thought, 
"  Will  they  give  up  the  men  ] " 

I  don't  know  how,  on  the  first  day  after  the  capture  of  the 
Southern  Commissioners  was  announced,  a  rumour  got  abroad  in 
London  that  the  taking  of  the  men  was  an  act  according  to  law, 
of  which  our  nation  could  take  no  notice.  It  was  said  that  the 
law  authorities  had  so  declared,  and  a  very  nolile  testimony  to  the 
loyalty  of  Englislimen,  I  think,  was  shown  by  the  instant  submission 


344  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

of  hii^h- spirited  gentlemen,  most  keenly  feeling  that  the  nation  had 
been  subject  to  a  coarse  outrage,  who  were  silent  when  told  that  the 
law  was  with  the  aggressor.  The  relief  which  presently  came,  when, 
after  a  pause  of  a  day,  we  found  that  law  was  on  our  side,  was 
indescribable.  The  nation  might  then  take  notice  of  this  insult  to 
its  honour.  Never  M'cre  people  more  eager  than  ours  when  they 
found  they  had  a  right  to  reparation. 

I  liave  talked  during  the  last  M^eek  with  many  English  holders 
of  American  securities,  who,  of  course,  have  been  aware  of  the 
threat  held  over  them.  "  England,"  says  the  New  York  Herald, 
"  cannot  afford  to  go  to  war  with  us,  for  six  hundred  millions'  worth 
of  American  stock  is  owned  by  British  subjects,  which,  in  event 
of  hostilities,  would  be  confiscated ;  and  we  now  call  upon  the 
Companies  not  to  take  it  off  their  hands  on  any  terms.  Let  its 
forfeiture  be  held  over  England  as  a  weajwn  in  terrorem.  Britisli 
subjects  have  two  or  three  hundred  millions  of  dollars  invested  in 
shipping  and  other  property  in  tlie  United  States.  All  this  property, 
together  with  tlie  stocks,  would  be  seized,  amounting  to  nine  hundred 
millions  of  dollars.  Will  England  incur  this  tremendous  loss  for  a 
mere  abstraction  ] " 

Whether  "a  mere  abstraction"  here  means  the  abstraction  of 
the  two  Southern  Commissioners  from  under  our  flag,  or  the 
abstract  idea  of  injured  honour,  which  seems  ridiculous  to  the 
Herald,  it  is  needless  to  ask.  I  have  spoken  with  many  men  Avho 
have  money  invested  in  the  States,  but  I  declare  I  have  not  met 
one  English  gentleman  whom  the  publication  of  this  threat  has 
influenced  for  a  moment.  Our  people  have  nine  hundred  millions 
of  dollars  invested  in  the  United  States,  have  they?  And  the 
Herald  "  calls  upon  the  Companies  "  not  to  take  any  of  this  debt 
off  our  hands.  Let  us,  on  our  side,  entreat  the  English  press  to 
give  tills  announcement  every  publicity.  Let  us  do  everything  in 
our  power  to  make  this  "call  upon  the  Americans"  well  known  in 
England.  I  hope  English  newsi)aper  eilitors  will  print  it,  and  print 
it  again  and  again.  It  is  not  we  who  say  this  of  American  citizens  ; 
but  American  citizens  who  say  this  of  themselves.  "  Bull  is  odious. 
We  can't  bear  Bull.  He  is  haughty,  arrogant,  a  braggart,  and  a 
blusterer;  and  we  can't  bear  brag  and  bluster  in  our  modest  and 
decorous  country.  We  hate  Bull,  and  if  he  quarrels  with  us  on  a 
point  in  which  we  are  in  the  wrong,  we  have  goods  of  his  in  our 
custody,  and  we  will  rob  him  ! "  Suppose  your  London  banker 
saying  to  you,  "  Sir,  I  have  always  thought  your  manners  disgusting, 
and  your  arrogance  insupportable.  You  dare  to  complain  of  my 
conduct  because  I  have  wrongfully  imprisoned  Jones.  My  answer 
to  your  vulgar  interference  is,  that  I  confiscate  your  balance ! " 


ON    HALF    A    LOAF  345 

What  would  be  an  English  merchant's  character  after  a  few 
such  transactions  ?  It  is  not  improbable  that  the  moralists  of  the 
Herald  would  call  him  a  rascal.  Why  have  the  United  States 
been  paying  seven,  eight,  ten  per  cent,  for  money  for  years  past, 
when  the  same  commodity  can  be  got  elsewhere  at  half  that  rate  of 
interest?  Why,  because  thougli  among  the  richest  proprietors  in 
the  world,  creditors  were  not  sure  of  them.  So  the  States  have 
had  to  pay  eighty  millions  yearly  for  the  use  of  money  which  would 
cost  other  borrowers  but  thirty.  Add  up  this  item  of  extra  interest 
alone  for  a  dozen  years,  and  see  what  a  prodigious  penalty  the 
States  have  been  paying  for  repudiation  here  and  there,  for  sharp 
practice,  for  doubtful  credit.  Suppose  the  peace  is  kept  between 
us,  the  remembrance  of  this  last  threat  alone  will  cost  the  States 
millions  and  millions  more.  If  they  nuist  have  money,  we  must 
have  a  greater  interest  to  ensure  our  jeopardised  capital.  Do 
American  Companies  want  to  borrow  money — as  want  to  borrow 
they  will  1  Mr.  Brown,  show  the  gentleman  that  extract  from  the 
Kew  York  Herald,  which  declares  that  the  United  States  will 
confiscate  private  property  in  the  event  of  a  war.  As  the  country 
newspapers  say,  "  Please,  country  pa]iers,  copy  this  paragraph." 
And,  gentlemen  in  America,  when  the  honour  of  your  nation  is 
called  in  question,  please  to  remember  that  it  is  the  American  press 
which  glories  in  announcing  that  you  are  prepared  to  be  rogues. 

And  when  this  war  has  drained  uncounted  hundreds  of  nnllions 
more  out  of  the  United  States  exchequer,  will  they  be  richer  or 
more  inclined  to  pay  debts,  or  less  willing  to  evade  them,  or  more 
popular  with  their  creditors,  or  more  likel}"  to  get  money  from  men 
whom  they  deliberately  announce  that  they  will  cheat  1  I  have 
not  followed  the  Herald  on  the  "  stone-ship  "  question- — that  great 
naval  victory  appears  to  me  not  less  horrible  and  wicked  than 
suicidal.  Block  the  harbours  for  ever;  destroy  the  inlets  of  the 
commerce  of  the  world  ;  perish  cities, — so  that  we  may  wreak  an 
injury  on  them.  It  is  the  talk  of  madmen,  but  not  the  less  wicked. 
The  act  injures  the  whole  Republic  :  but  it  is  perpetrated.  It  is 
to  deal  harm  to  ages  hence ;  but  it  is  done.  The  Indians  of  old 
used  to  burn  women  and  their  unborn  children.  This  stone-ship 
business  is  Indian  warfare.  And  it  is  performed  by  men  who  tell 
us  every  week  that  they  are  at  the  head  of  civiHsation,  and  that 
the  Old  World  is  decrepit,  and  cruel,  and  barbarous  as  compared  to 
theirs. 

The  same  politicians  who  throttle  commerce  at  its  neck,  and 
threaten  to  confiscate  trust-money,  say  that  when  the  war  is  over, 
and  the  South  is  subdued,  then  the  ttn-n  of  the  old  country  will 
come,   and  a  direful  retribution   shall  be   taken  for  our  conduct. 


346  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

This  has  been  the  cry  all  through  the  war.  "  We  should  have  con 
quered  the  South,"  says  an  American  paper  which  I  read  this  very 
day,  "but  for  England."  Was  there  ever  such  puling  heard  from 
men  who  have  an  army  of  a  million,  and  who  turn  and  revile  a 
people  who  have  stood  as  aloof  from  their  contest  as  tliey  have  from 
the  war  of  Troy  1  Or  is  it  an  outcry  made  with  malice  prepense  1 
And  is  the  song  of  the  JS^eiv  York  Times  a  variation  of  the  Herald 
tune  1^"  The  conduct  of  the  British,  in  folding  their  arms  and 
taking  no  part  in  the  fight,  has  been  so  base  that  it  has  caused  the 
prolongation  of  the  war,  and  occasioned  a  prodigious  expense  on 
our  part.  Therefore,  as  we  have  British  property  in  our  hands, 
we  &c.  &c."  The  lamb  troubled  the  water  dreadfully,  and  the  wolf, 
in  a  righteous  indignation,  "confiscated"  him.  Of  course  we  have 
heard  that  at  an  undisturbed  time  Great  Britain  would  never  have 
dared  to  press  its  claim  for  redress.  Did  the  United  States  wait 
until  we  were  at  peace  with  France  before  they  went  to  war  with 
us  last?  Did  Mr.  Seward  yield  the  claim  which  he  confesses  to 
Vie  just,  until  he  himself  was  menaced  with  war?  How  long  were 
tlie  Southern  gentlemen  kept  in  prison  1  What  caused  them  to  be 
set  free  1  and  did  the  Cabinet  of  Washington  see  its  error  before  or 
after  the  demand  for  redress  ?  *  The  captor  was  feasted  at  Boston, 
and  the  captives  in  prison  hard  by.  If  the  wrongdoer  was  to  be 
punished,  it  was  Captain  Wilkes  who  ought  to  have  gone  into  limbo. 
At  any  rate,  as  "  the  Cabinet  of  Washington  could  not  give  its 
approbation  to  the  commander  of  the  Smi  Jacinto,"  why  were  the 
men  not  sooner  set  free  ?  To  sit  at  Tremont  House,  and  hear  the 
captain  after  dinner  give  his  opinion  on  international  law,  would 
have  been  better  sport  for  the  prisoners  than  the  grim  salle-d- 
manger  at  Fort  Warren. 

I  read  in  the  commercial  news  brought  by  the  Teutonia,  and 

*  "At  the  beginning  of  December  the  British  fleet  on  the  West  Indian 
station  mounted  850  guns,  and  comprised  five  liners,  ten  first-class  frigates, 
and  seventeen  powerful  corvettes.  ...  In  little  more  than  a  month  the  iieet 
available  for  operations  on  the  American  shore  had  been  more  than  doubled. 
The  reinforcements  prepared  at  the  various  dockyards  included  tv?o  line-of- 
battle  ships,  twenty-nine  magnificent  frigates  —  such  as  the  Shannon,  the 
Siitlej,  the  Eurya'us,  the  Orlando,  the  Galatea;  eight  corvettes,  armed 
like  the  frigates  in  part,  with  100-  and  40-  pounder  Armstrong  guns ;  and  the 
two  tremendous  iron-cased  ships,  the  Warrior  and  the  Black  Prince;  and 
their  smaller  sisters  the  Resistance  and  the  Defence.  There  was  work  to 
be  done  which  might  have  delayed  the  commission  of  a  few  of  these  ships  for 
some  weeks  longer  ;  but  if  the  United  States  had  chosen  war  instead  of  peace, 
the  blockade  of  their  coasts  would  have  been  supported  by  a  steam  fleet  of 
more  than  sixty  splendid  ships,  armed  with  1800  guns,  many  of  them  of  the 
heaviest  and  most  effective  kind." — Saturday  Review:  Jan.  11. 


ON    HALF    A    LOAF  S47 

published  in  London  on  the  present  13th  Jannary,  that  the  pork 
market  was  generally  quiet  on  the  29th  December  last ;  that  lard, 
though  with  more  activity,  was  heavy  and  decidedly  lower :  and  at 
Philadelphia,  whisky  is  steady  and  stocks  firm.  Stocks  are  firm  : 
that  is  a  comfort  for  the  English  holders,  and  tlie  ('onfiscating 
process  recommended  by  the  Herald  is  at  least  deferred.  But 
presently  comes  an  announcement  which  is  not  quite  so  cheering : — 
"  The  Saginaw  Central  Railway  Company  (let  us  call  it)  has  post- 
poned its  January  dividend  on  account  of  the  disturbed  condition  of 
public  affairs." 

A  la  bonne  heure.  The  bond-  and  share-holders  of  the  Saginaw 
must  look  for  loss  and  depression  in  times  of  war.  This  is  one  of 
war's  dreadful  taxes  and  necessities  :  and  all  sorts  of  innocent  people 
must  suff'er  by  the  misfortune.  The  corn  was  high  at  Waterloo 
when  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men  came  and  trampled  it  down 
on  a  Sabbath  morning.  There  was  no  help  for  that  calamity,  and 
the  Belgian  farmers  lost  their  crops  for  the  year.  Perhaps  I  am  a 
farmer  myself — an  innocent  colonus ;  and  instead  of  being  able  to 
get  to  church  with  my  family,  have  to  see  squadrons  of  French 
dragoons  thunderingupo]i  my  barley,  and  squares  of  English  infantry 
forming  and  trampling  all  over  my  oats.  (By  the  way,  in  writing 
of  "  Panics,"  an  ingenious  writer  in  the  Atlantic  Magazine  says 
that  the  British  panics  at  Waterloo  were  frequent  and  notorious.) 
Well,  I  am  a  Belgian  peasant,  and  I  see  the  British  running  away 
and  the  French  cutting  the  fugitives  down.  What  have  I  done 
that  these  men  should  be  kicking  down  my  peaceful  harvest  for  me, 
on  which  I  counted  to  pay  my  rent,  to  feed  my  horses,  my  house- 
hold, my  children  ]  It  is  hard.  But  it  is  the  fortune  of  war.  But 
suppose  the  battle  over;  the  Frenchman  says,  "You  scoundrel! 
why  did  you  not  take  a  part  with  me  1  and  why  did  you  stand  like 
a  double-faced  traitor  looking  on  1  I  should  have  won  the  battle 
but  for  you.  And  I  hereby  confiscate  the  farm  you  stand  on,  and 
you  and  your  family  may  go  to  the  workhouse." 

The  New  York  press  holds  this  argument  over  English  people 
in  terrorem.  "  We  Americans  may  be  ever  so  wrong  in  the  matter 
in  dispute,  but  if  you  push  us  to  a  war,  we  will  confiscate  your 
English  property."  Very  good.  It  is  peace  now.  Confidence  of 
course  is  restored  between  us.  Our  eighteen  hundred  peace  commis- 
sioners have  no  occasion  to  open  their  mouths  ;  and  the  little  ques- 
tion of  confiscation  is  postponed.  Messrs.  Battery,  Broadway  &  Co., 
of  New  York,  have  the  kindness  to  sell  my  Saginaws  for  what 
they  will  fetch.  I  shall  lose  half  my  loaf  very  likely  ;  but  for  tlie 
sake  of  a  (juiet  life,  let  us  give  up  a  certain  quantity  of  flirinaceous 
food ;  and  half  a  loaf,  you  know,  is  better  than  no  bread  at  all. 


THE  NOTCH  ON  THE  AXE.— A  STORY 
A  LA  MODE 

Part  I 

EVERY  one  remembers  in  the  Fourth  Book  of  the  immortal 
poem  of  your  Blind  Bard  (to  whose  sightless  orbs  no  doubt 
Glorious  Shapes  were  apparent,  and  Visions  Celestial),  how 
Adam  discourses  to  Eve  of  the  Bright  Visitors  who  hovered  round 
their  Eden — 

"  '  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  eartli, 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep.' 

"'How  often,'  says  Father  Adam,  'fi'om  the  steep  of  echoing 
hill  or  thicket,  have  we  heard  celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
sole,  or  responsive  to  each  other's  notes,  singing ! '  After  the  Act 
of  Disobedience,  when  the  erring  pair  from  Eden  took  their  solitary 
way,  and  went  forth  to  toil  and  trouble  on  common  earth — though 
the  Glorious  Ones  no  longer  were  visible,  you  cannot  say  they  were 
gone.  It  was  not  that  the  Bright  Ones  were  absent,  but  that  the 
dim  eyes  of  rebel  man  no  longer  could  see  them.  In  your  chamber 
hangs  a  picture  of  one  whom  you  never  knew,  but  whom  you  have 
long  held  in  tenderest  regard,  and  who  was  painted  for  you  by  a 
friend  of  mine,  the  Kniglit  of  Plympton.  She  communes  with  you. 
She  smiles  on  you.  Wlien  your  spirits  are  low,  her  bright  eyes 
shine  on  you  and  cheer  you.  Her  innocent  sweet  smile  is  a  caress 
to  you.  She  never  fails  to  soothe  you  with  her  speechless  prattle. 
You  love  her.  Slie  is  alive  with  you.  As  you  extinguish  your 
candle  and  turn  to  sleep,  though  your  eyes  see  her  not,  is  she  not 
there  still  smiling  1  As  you  lie  in  the  night  awake,  and  thinking 
of  your  duties,  and  the  morrow's  inevitable  toil  oppressing  the  busy, 
weary,  wakeful  brain  as  with  a  remorse,  the  crackling  fire  flashes 
up  for  a  moment  in  the  grate,  and  she  is  there,  your  little  Beauteous 
Maiden,  smiling  with  her  sweet  eyes  !  When  moon  is  down,  when 
fire  is  out,  when  curtains  are  drawn,  when  Ikh  are  closed,  is  she 
iii>t  there,  the  little  Beautiful  One,  though  invisible,  present  and 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  349 

smiling  still  1  Friend,  tlie  Unseen  Ones  are  round  about  us.  Does 
it  not  seem  as  if  tlie  time  were  drawing  near  Avhen  it  shall  be  given 
to  men  to  behold  them  1 " 

The  print  of  which  my  friend  spoke,  and  which,  indeed,  hangs 
in  my  room,  though  he  has  never  been  there,  is  that  charming  little 
winter  piece  of  Sir  Joshua,  representing  the  little  Lady  Caroline 
Montague,  afterwards  Duchess  of  Buccleuch.  She  is  represented 
as  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  winter  landscape,  wrapped  in  muff 
and  cloak;  and  she  looks  out  of  her  picture  with  a  smile  so  exquisite 
that  a  Herod  could  not  see  her  without  being  charmed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Pinto,"  I  said  to  the  person  with 
whom  I  was  conversing.  (I  wonder,  by  the  way,  that  I  was  not 
surprised  at  his  knowing  how  fond  I  am  of  this  print.)  "You 
spoke  of  the  Knight  of  Plympton.  Sir  Joshua  died,  1792  :  and 
you  say  he  was  your  dear  friend  1 " 

As  I  spoke  I  chanced  to  look  at  Mr.  Pinto ;  and  tlien  it 
suddenly  struck  me :  Gracious  powers  !  Perhaps  you  are  a  hundred 
years  old,  now  I  think  of  it.  You  look  more  than  a  Iiundred.  Yes, 
you  may  be  a  thousand  years  old  for  what  I  know.  Your  teeth 
are  false.  One  eye  is  evidently  false.  Can  I  say  that  the  other  is 
not  1  If  a  man's  age  may  be  calculated  by  the  rings  round  liis  eyes, 
this  man  may  be  as  old  as  Methuselah.  He  has  no  beard.  He  wears 
a  large  curly  glossy  brown  wig,  and  his  eyebrows  are  painted  a  deep 
olive-green.  It  was  odd  to  hear  this  man,  this  walking  mummy, 
talking  sentiment,  in  these  queer  old  chambers  in  Shepherd's  Inn. 

Pinto  passed  a  yellow  bandanna  handkerchief  over  his  awful 
white  teeth,  and  kept  his  glass  eye  steadily  fixed  on  me.  "  Sir 
Joshua's  friend  1 "  said  he  (you  perceive,  eluding  my  direct  question). 
"Is  not  every  one  that  knows  his  pictures  Reynolds's  friend"? 
Suppose  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  in  his  painting-room  scores  of 
times,  and  that  his  sister  Thd  has  made  me  tea,  and  liis  sister  Toffy 
has  made  coffee  for  me?  You  will  only  say  I  am  an  old  ombog." 
(Mr.  Pinto,  I  remarked,  spoke  all  languages  with  an  accent  equally 
foreign.)  "  Suppose  I  tell  you  that  I  knew  Mr.  Sam  Jolinson,  and 
did  not  like  him  1  that  I  was  at  that  very  ball  at  Madame  Cornelis' 
which  you  have  mentioned  in  one  of  your  little — what  do  you  call 
them  1 — bah  !  my  memory  begins  to  fail  me — in  one  of  "your  little 
Wliirligig  Papers  1  Sui)pose  I  tell  you  that  Sir  Joshua  has  been 
here,  in  this  very  room  ? " 

"  Have  you,  then,  had  these  apartments  for — more — than — 
seventy  years  1"  I  asked. 

"  They  look  as  if  they  had  not  been  swept  for  that  time — don't 
they  ?  Hey  1  I  did  not  say  that  I  had  them  for  seventy  years, 
but  that  Sir  Joshua  had  visited  uie  here." 


350  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"When?"  I  asked,  eyeing  the  man  sternly,  for  I  began  to  think 
he  was  an  impostor. 

He  answered  me  with  a  glance  still  more  stern  :  "  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  was  here  this  very  morning,  with  Angelica  Kaufmann 
and  Mr.  Oliver  Goldschmidt.  He  is  still  very  much  attached  to 
Angelica,  who  still  does  not  care  for  him.  Because  he  is  dead  (and 
I  was  in  the  fourth  mourning  coach  at  his  funeral)  is  that  any 
reason  why  he  should  not  come  back  to  earth  again  1  My  good 
sir,  you  are  laughing  at  me.  He  has  sat  many  a  time  on  that  very 
chair  which  you  are  occupying.  There  are  several  spirits  in  the 
room  now,  whom  you  cannot  see.  Excuse  me."  Here  he  turned 
round  as  if  he  was  addressing  somebody,  and  began  rapidly  speak- 
ing a  language  unknown  to  me.  "It  is  Arabic,"  ho  said;  "a  bad 
patois  I  own.  I  learned  it  in  Barbary,  when  I  was  a  prisoner 
amongst  the  Moors.  In  anno  1609,  bin  ick  aldus  ghekledt 
gheghaen.  Ha  !  you  doubt  me  :  look  at  me  well.  At  least  I  am 
like " 

Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  remember  a  paper  of  which  the 
figure  of  a  man  carrying  a  log  formed  the  initial  letter,  and  which 
I  copied  from  an  old  spoon  now  in  my  possession.  As  I  looked  at 
Mr.  Pinto  I  do  declare  he  looked  so  like  the  figure  on  that  old  piece 
of  plate  that  I  started  and  felt  very  uneasy.  "Ha!"  said  he, 
laughing  tlu-ough  his  false  teeth  (I  declare  they  were  false — I  could 
see  utterly  toothless  gums  working  up  and  down  behind  the  pink 
coral),  "  you  see  I  wore  a  beard  den  ;  I  am  shafed  now ;  perhaps 
you  tink  I  am  a.  spoon.  Ha,  ha ! "  And  as  he  laughed  he  gave  a 
cough  which  I  thought  would  have  coughed  his  teeth  out,  his  glass 
eye  out,  his  wig  off,  his  very  head  off;  but  he  stopped  this  con- 
vulsion by  stumping  across  the  room  and  seizing  a  little  bottle  o 
bright  pink  medicine,  which,  being  opened,  spread  a  singular  acrid 
aromatic  odour  through  the  apartment ;  and  I  thought  I  saw — but 
of  this  I  cannot  take  an  affirmation — a  light  green  and  violet  flame 
flickering  round  the  neck  of  the  phial  as  he  opened  it.  By  the  way, 
from  the  peculiar  stumping  noise  which  he  made  in  crossing  the 
bare-boarded  apartment,  I  knew  at  once  that  my  strange  entertainer 
had  a  wooden  leg.  Over  the  dust  which  lay  quite  thick  on  the 
boards,  you  could  see  the  mark  of  one  foot  very  neat  and  pretty, 
and  then  a  round  0,  which  was  naturally  tlie  impression  made  by 
the  wooden  stump.  I  own  I  had  a  queer  thrill  as  I  saw  that  mark, 
and  felt  a  secret  comfort  that  it  was  not  cloven. 

In  this  desolate  apartment  in  which  Mr.  Pinto  had  invited  me 
to  see  him,  there  were  three  chairs,  one  bottomless,,  a  little  table  on 
Avhich  you  might  put  a  breakfast-tray,  and  not  a  single  other  article 
of  furniture,      In  the  next  room,  the  door  of  which  was  open,  I 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  351 

could  see  a  magnificent  gilt  (lressing-c;isp,  with  some  splendid 
diamond  and  ruby  shirt-studs  lying  by  it,  and  u  elii  st  of  drawers- 
and  a  cupboard  apparently  full  of  clothes. 

Eemembering  him  in  Baden  Baden  in  great  magnificence,  I 
wondered  at  his  pi-esent  denuded  state.  "You  have  a  house  else- 
Avhere,  Mr.  Pinto  1"  1  said. 

"  Many,"  says  he.  "  I  have  apartments  in  many  cities.  I  lock 
dem  up,  and  do  not  carry  mosh  logish." 

I  then  remembered  that  his  apartment  at  Baden,  where  I  first 
met  him,  was  bare,  and  had  no  bed  in  it. 

"  There  is,  then,  a  sleeping-room  beyond  ? " 

"  This  is  the  sleeping-room."  (He  pronounces  it  dis.  Can 
this,  by  the  way,  give  any  clue  to  the  nationality  of  this  singular 
man  1) 

"  If  you  sleep  on  these  two  old  chairs  you  have  a  rickety  couch  ; 
if  on  the  floor,  a  dusty  one." 

"Suppose  I  sleep  up  dere?"  said  this  strange  man,  and  he 
actually  pointed  up  to  the  ceiling.  I  thought  him  mad,  or  what 
he  himself  called  "an  ombog."  "I  know.  You  do  not  believe 
me ;  for  why  should  I  deceive  you  1  I  came  but  to  propose  a 
matter  of  business  to  you.  I  told  you  I  could  give  you  the  clue  to 
the  mystery  of  the  Two  Children  in  Black,  whom  you  met  at  Baden, 
and  you  came  to  see  me.  If  I  told  you,  you  would  not  believe  me. 
What  for  try  and  convinz  you*?  Ha,  hey?"  And  he  shook  his 
hand  once,  twice,  thrice,  at  me,  and  glared  at  me  out  of  his  eye  in 
a  peculiar  way. 

Of  what  happened  now  I  protest  I  cannot  give  an  accurate 
account.  It  seemed  to  me  that  there  shot  a  flame  from  his  eye 
into  my  brain,  whilst  behind  his  c/lass  eye  there  was  a  green 
illumination  as  if  a  candle  had  been  lit  in  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  from  his  long  fingers  two  c^uivering  flames  issued,  sputtering, 
as  it  were,  which  penetrated  me,  and  forced  me  back  into  one  of 
the  chairs — the  broken  one — out  of  which  I  had  much  difficulty  in 
scrambling,  when  the  strange  glamour  was  ended.  It  seemed  to  me 
that,  when  I  was  so  fixed,  so  transfixed  in  the  broken  chair,  the 
man  floated  up  to  the  ceiling,  crossed  his  legs,  folded  his  arms  as  if 
he  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  and  grinned  down  at  me.  When  I  came  to 
myself  he  was  down  from  the  ceiling,  and,  taking  me  out  of  the 
broken  cane-bottomed  chair,  kindly  enough — "  Bah  !  "  said  he,  "  it 
is  the  smell  of  my  medicine.  It  often  gives  the  vertigo.  I  thought 
you  would  have  had  a  little  fit.  Come  into  the  open  air."  And 
we  went  down  the  steps,  and  into  Shejjherd's  Inn,  where  the  setting 
sun  was  just  shining  on  the  statue  of  Slie))herd  :  the  laundresses 
were   trapesing  about;  the   porters   were  leaning  against  the  rail- 


352  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

ings ;  and  the  clerks  were  playing  at  marbles,  to  my  inexpressible 
consolation. 

"You  said  you  were  going  to  dine  at  the  'Gray's-inn  Coffee- 
house,' "  he  said.  I  was.  I  often  dine  there.  There  is  excellent 
wine  at  the  "  Gray's-inn  Coffee-house ; "  but  I  declare  I  never  said 
so.  I  was  not  astonished  at  his  remark ;  no  more  astonished  than 
if  I  was  in  a  dream.  Perhaps  I  tvas  in  a  dream.  Is  life  a  dream  1 
Are  dreams  facts  1  Is  sleeping  being  really  awake  1  I  don't  know. 
I  tell  you  I  am  puzzled.  I  have  read  "The  Woman  in  White," 
"  Tiie  Strange  Story  " — not  to  mention  that  story  "  Stranger  than 
Fiction  "  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine — that  story  for  which  three 
credible  witnesses  are  ready  to  vouch.  I  have  had  messages  from 
the  dead ;  and  not  only  from  the  dead,  but  from  people  who  never 
existed  at  all.  I  own  I  am  in  a  state  of  much  bewilderment :  but, 
if  you  please,  will  proceed  with  my  simple,  my  artless  story. 

Well,  then.  We  passed  from  Shepherd's  Inn  into  Holborn, 
and  looked  for  a  while  at  Woodgate's  bric-k-brac  shop,  which  I 
never  can  pass  without  delaying  at  the  windows — indeed,  if  I  were 
going  to  be  hanged,  I  would  beg  the  cart  to  stop,  and  let  me  have 
one  look  more  at  that  delightful  omnium  gatherum.  And  passing 
Woodgate's,  we  come  to  Gale's  little  shop,  "  No.  47,"  which  is  also 
a  favourite  haunt  of  mine. 

Mr.  Gale  happened  to  be  at  his  door,  and  as  we  exchanged 
salutations,  "  Mr.  Pinto,"  I  said,  "  would  you  like  to  see  a  real 
curiosity  in  this  curiosity  shop  1  Step  into  Mr.  Gale's  little  back 
room." 

In  tliat  little  back  parlour  there  are  Chinese  gongs ;  there  are 
old  Saxe  and  Sfevres  plates ;  there  is  Fiirstenberg,  Carl  Theodor, 
Worcester,  Amstel,  Nankin  and  other  jimcrockery.  And  in  the 
corner  what  do  you  think  there  is  1  There  is  an  actual  GUILLO- 
TINE. If  you  doubt  me,  go  and  see — Gale,  High  Holborn,  No.  47. 
It  is  a  slim  instrument,  much  slighter  than  those  which  they  make 
now ; — some  nine  feet  high,  narrow,  a  pretty  piece  of  upholstery 
enough.  There  is  the  hook  over  which  the  rope  used  to  play  which 
unloosened  the  dreadful  axe  above ;  and  look !  dropped  into  the 
orifice  where  the  head  used  to  go —  there  is  the  axe  itself,  all  rusty, 

with  A  GREAT  NOTCH  IN  THE  BLADE. 

As  Pinto  looked  at  it — Mr.  Gale  was  not  in  the  room,  I  re- 
collect ;  happening  to  have  been  just  called  out  by  a  customer  who 
offered  him  three  pound  fourteen  and  sixpence  for  a  blue  Shepherd 
in  ^ja^e  tendre, — Mr.  Pinto  gave  a  little  start,  and  seemed  crispe 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  looked  steadily  towards  one  of  those  great 
porcelain  stools  which  you  see  in  gardens — and — it  seemed  to  me — 
I  tell  you  I  won't  take  my  affidavit — I  may  havp  bepn  maddened 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  353 

by  the  six  glasses  I  took  of  that  pink  elixir — I  may  have  been 
sleep-walking  :  perhaps  am  as  I  write  now — I  may  have  been  under 
the  influence  of  tliat  astounding  MEDIUM  into  whose  hands  I  hatl 
fallen — but  I  vow  I  heard  Pinto  say,  with  rather  a  ghastly  grin  at 
the  porcelain  stool, 

"  Nay,  nefer  shague  your  gory  locks  at  me, 
Dou  canst  not  say  I  did  it." 

(He  pronounced  it,  by  the  way,  I  dit  it,  by  which  I  hnoto  that 
Pinto  was  a  German.) 

I  heard  Pinto  say  those  very  words,  and  sitting  on  the  porcelain 
stool  I  saw,  dimly  at  first,  then  with  an  awful  distinctness — a  ghost 
— an  eidolon — a  form — A  headless  man  seated,  with  his  head  in 
his  lap,  which  wore  an  expression  of  piteous  surprise. 

At  this  minute,  Mr.  Gale  entered  from  the  front  shop  to  show 
a  customer  some  delf  plates ;  and  he  did  not  see — but  ^ve  did — 
the  figure  rise  up  from  the  porcelain  stool,  shake  its  head,  which  it 
held  in  its  hand,  and  which  kept  its  eyes  fixed  sadly  on  us,  and 
disappear  behind  the  guillotine. 

"  Come  to  the  '  Gray's-inn  Coflee-house,' "  Pinto  said,  "  and  I 
will  tell  you  how  the  notch  came  to  the  axe."  And  we  walked 
down  Holborn  at  about  thirty-seven  minutes  past  six  o'clock. 

If  there  is  anything  in  the  above  statement  which  astonishes 
the  reader,  I  promise  him  that  in  the  next  chapter  of  this  little 
story  he  will  be  astonished  still  more. 


Paet  II 

YOU  will  excuse  me,"  I  said  to  my  companion,  " for  remarking, 
that  when  you  addressed  the  individual  sitting  on  the  porce- 
lain stool,  with  his  head  in  his  lap,  your  ordinarily  benevolent 
features " — (this  I  confess  was  a  bouncer,  for  between  ourselves  a 
more  sinister  and  ill-looking  rascal  than  Monsieur  P.  I  have  seldom 
set  eyes  on) — "your  ordinarily  handsome  face  wore  an  expression 
that  was  by  no  means  pleasing.  You  grinned  at  the  individual 
just  as  you  did  at  me  when  you  went  up  to  the  cei— — ,  pardon 
me,  as  I  thought  you  did,  when  I  fell  down  in  a  fit  in  your 
chambers  ; "  and  I  qualified  my  words  in  a  great  flutter  and  tremble  ; 
I  did  not  care  to  offend  the  man — I  did  not  dare  to  oflfend  the 
man.  I  thought  once  or  twice  of  jumping  into  a  cab,  and  flying  ; 
or  taking  refuge  in  Day  and  Martin's  Blacking  Warehouse  \  of  speak- 

23 


354  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

ing  to  a  policeman,  but  not  one  would  come.  I  was  this  man's 
slave.  I  followed  him  like  his  dog.  I  could  not  get  away  from 
him.  So,  you  see,  I  went  on  meanly  conversing  with  him,  and 
affecting  a  simpering  confidence.  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  at  scliool,  going  up  fawning  and  smiling  in  this  way  to  some  great 
hulking  bully  of  a  sixth-form  boy.  So  I  said  in  a  word,  "Your 
ordinarily  handsome  face  wore  a  disagreeaWe  expression,"  &c. 

"  It  is  ordinarily  very  handsome,"  said  he,  with  such  a  leer 
at  a  couple  of  passers-by,  that  one  of  them  cried,  "Oh,  crikey, 
here's  a  precious  guy ! "  and  a  child,  in  its  nurse's  arms,  screamed 
itself  into  convulsions.  "  Oh,  oui,  che  suis  trfes-choli  gar^on,  bien 
peau,  cerdainement,"  continued  Mr.  Pinto ;  "  but  you  were  right. 
That— that  person  was  not  very  well  pleased  when  he  saw  me. 
There  was  no  love  lost  between  us,  as  you  say;  and  the  world 
never  knew  a  more  worthless  miscreant.  I  hate  him,  voyez-voxis  ? 
I  hated  him  alife ;  I  hate  him  dead.  I  hate  him  man ;  I  hate 
him  ghost :  and  lie  know  it,  and  tremble  before  me.  If  I  see  him 
twenty  tausend  years  hence — and  why  not  ? — I  shall  hate  him  still. 
You  remarked  how  he  was  dressed  % " 

"In  black  satin  breeches  and  striped  stockings;  a  white  piqu^ 
waistcoat,  a  grey  coat,  with  large  metal  buttons,  and  his  hair  in 
powder.     He  must  have  worn  a  pigtail — only " 

"Only  it  was  cut  off!  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  Mr.  Pinto  cried,  yelling 
a  laugh,  which  I  observed  made  the  policemen  stare  very  much. 
"Yes.  It  was  cut  off  by  the  same  blow  which  took  off  the 
scoundrel's  head — ho,  ho,  ho  ! "  And  he  made  a  circle  with  his 
hook-nailed  finger  round  his  own  yellow  neck,  and  grinned  with  a 
horrible  triumph.  "  I  promise  you  that  fellow  was  surprised  when 
he  found  his  head  in  the  pannier.  Ha  !  ha !  Do  you  ever  cease 
to  hate  those  whom  you  hate?" — fire  flashed  terrifically  from  his 
glass  eye  as  he  spoke — "or  to  love  dose  whom  you  once  loved. 
Oh,  never,  never !  "  And  here  his  natural  eye  was  bedewed  with 
tears.  "  But  here  we  are  at  the  '  Gray's-inn  Coffee-house.'  James, 
what  is  the  joint  ? " 

That  very  respectful  and  efficient  waiter  brought  in  the  bill 
of  fare,  and  I,  for  my  part,  chose  boiled  leg  of  pork  and  pease- 
pudding,  which  my  acquaintance  said  would  do  as  well  as  anything 
else ;  though  I  remarked  he  only  trifled  with  the  pease-pudding, 
and  left  all  the  pork  on  the  plate.  In  fact,  he  scarcely  ate  any- 
thing. But  he  drank  a  prodigious  quantity  of  wine  ;  and  I  must 
say  that  my  friend  Mr.  Hart's  port-wine  is  so  good  that  I  myself 
took — well,  I  should  think,  I  took  three  glasses.  Yes,  three, 
certainly.  //," — I  mean  Mr.  P. — the  old  rogue,  was  insatiable; 
for  we  had  to  call  for  a  second  bottle  in  no  time.     When  that 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  355 

was  gone,  my  companion  wanted  another.  A  little  red  mounted 
up  to  his  yellow  cheeks  as  he  drank  the  wine,'  and  he  winked  at 
it  in  a  strange  manner.  "  I  remember,"  said  he,  musing,  "  when 
port-wine  was  scarcely  drunk  in  this  country — though  the  Queen 
liked  it,  and  so  did  Harley !  lint  Bolingbroke  didn't — he  dratdv 
Florence  and  Champagne.     Doctor   Swift   put  water  to  his  wine. 

'  Jonathan,'  I  once  said  to  him but  bah  !  antres  temps,  aufrcs 

niffurs.     Anotlier  magnum,  James." 

This  was  all  very  well.  "My  good  sir,"  I  said,  "it  may  suit 
yoii  to  order  bottles  of  '20  port,  at  a  guinea  a  l)ottle  ;  but  that 
kind  of  price  does  not  suit  me.  I  only  happen  to  have  tlurty-four- 
and-sixpence  in  my  pocket,  of  which  I  want  a  shilling  for  the 
waiter  and  eigliteenpence  for  my  cab.  You  rich  foreigners  and 
sioells  may  spend  what  you  like  "  (I  had  him  there  :  for  my  friend's 
dress  was  as  shabby  as  an  old-clothes-man's);  "but  a  man  witli 
a  family,  Mr.  Wliat-d'-you-call-'im,  cannot  afford  to  spend  seven  or 
eight  hundred  a  year  on  his  dinner  alone." 

"  Bah  ! "  he  said.  "  Nunkey  pays  for  all,  as  you  say.  I  will 
what  you  call  stant  the  dinner,  if  you  arc  so  j'oor  I "  and  again 
he  gave  that  disagreeable  grin,  and  jdaced  an  odious  crooked-nailed 
and  by  no  means  clean  finger  to  his  nose.  But  I  was  not  so  afraid 
of  him  now,  for  we  were  in  a  luiblic  lAnce  :  and  the  three  glasses 
of  port-wine  had,  you  see,  given  me  courage. 

"  Wliat  a  pretty  snuff-box  ! "  he  remarked,  as  I  handed  him 
mine,  which  I  am  still  old-fashioned  enough  to  carry.  It  is  a 
pretty  old  gold  box  enough,  but  valuable  to  me  especially  as  a 
relic  of  an  old  old  relative,  whom  I  can  just  remember  as  a  child, 
when  she  was  very  kind  to  me.  "Yes;  a  pretty  box.  I  can 
remember  when  many  ladies — most  ladies — carried  a  box, — nay, 
two  boxes— tabatm-e  and  Lonboiim'ere.  What  lady  carries  snuff-box 
now,  hey  ?  Suppose  your  astonishment  if  a  lady  in  an  assembly 
were  to  offer  you  a  y:»r?'se  ?  I  can  remendjer  a  lady  with  such  a 
box  as  this,  with  a  tour,  as  we  used  to  call  it  then  ;  Avith  pn^uers, 
with  a  tortoiseshell  cane,  with  the  prettiest  little  high-heeled  velvi  t 
shoes  in  the  world  ! — ah  !  that  was  a  time,  that  was  a  time  !  Ali, 
Eliza,  Eliza,  I  have  thee  now  in  my  mind's  eye  !  At  Bungay  cm 
the  Waveney,  did  I  not  walk  with  thee,  Eliza  1  Aha,  did  I  not 
love  thee  1  Did  I  not  walk  with  thee  then  ?  Do  I  not  see  thee 
still  r' 

This  was  passing  strange.  My  ancestress — but  there  is  no  need 
to  publish  her  revered  name — did  indeed  live  at  Bungay  Saint 
Mary's,  where  she  lies  bm-ied.  She  used  to  walk  with  a  tortoif-c- 
shell  cane.  She  used  to  wear  little  black  velvet  shoes,  with  the 
prettiest  high  heels  in  the  world. 


356  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"Did  you — did  you— know,  then,  my  great-gr-ndm-ther T * 
I  said. 

He  pulled  up  his  coat  sleeve — "  Is  that  her  name  1 "  he  said. 

«  Eliza " 

There,  I  declare,  was  the  very  name  of  the  kind  old  creature 
written  in  red  on  his  arm. 

"  You  knew  her  old,"  he  said,  divining  my  thoughts  (with  his 
strange  knack) ;  "  /  knew  her  young  and  lovely.  I  danced  with 
her  at  the  Bury  ball.     Did  I  not,  dear  dear  Miss 1 " 

As  I   live,  he    here    mentioned    dear   gr-nny's  maiden  name. 

Her    maiden    name   was   Her   honoured    married    name 

was 

"She  married  your  great-gr-ndf-th-r  the  year  Poseidon  won 
the  Newmarket  Plate,"  Mr.  Pinto  drily  remarked. 

Merciful  powers  !  I  remember,  over  the  old  shagreen  knife  and 
spoon  case  on  the  sideboard  in  ray  gr-nny's  parlour,  a  print  by 
Stubbs  of  that  very  horse.  My  grandsire,  in  a  red  coat  and  his 
fair  hair  flowing  over  his  shoulders,  was  over  the  mantelpiece,  and 
Poseidon  won  the  Newmarket  Cup  in  the  year  1783  ! 

"  Yes ;  you  are  right.  I  danced  a  minuet  with  her  at  Bury 
that  very  night,  before  I  lost  my  poor  leg.  And  I  quarrelled  with 
your  grandf -,  ha  !  " 

As  he  said  "  Ha ! "  there  came  three  quiet  little  taps  on  the 
table — it  is  the  middle  table  in  the  "  Gray's-inn  Coffee-house," 
under  the  bust  of  the  kite  Duke  of  W-11-ngt-n. 

"I  fired  in  the  air,"  he  continued;  "did  I  not?"  (Tap,  tap, 
tap.)  "Your  grandfather  hit  me  in  the  leg.  He  married  three 
months  afterwards.  '  Captain  Brown,'  I  said,  '  who  could  see  Miss 
Sm-th  without  loving  her  1 '  She  is  there  !  She  is  there  ! "  (Tap, 
tap,  tap.)     "Yes,  my  first  love " 

But  here  there  came  tap,  tap,  which  everybody  knows  means 
"  No." 

"  I  forgot,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  blush  stealing  over  his  wan 

features,  "  she  was  not  my  first  love.     In  Germ in  my  own 

country — there  was  a  young  woman " 

Tap,  tap,  tap.  There  was  here  quite  a  lively  little  treble 
knock ;  and  when  the  old  man  said,  "  But  I  loved  thee  better 
than  all  the  world,  Eliza,"  the  affirmative  signal  was  briskly 
repeated. 

And  this  I  declare  upon  my  honour.  There  was,  I  have  said, 
a  bottle  of  port-wine  before  us — I  should  say  a  decanter.  That 
decanter  was  lifted  up,  and  out  of  it  into  our  respective  glasses 
two  bumpers  of  wine  were  poured.  I  appeal  to  Mr.  Hart,  the 
landlord — I  appeal  to  James,  the  respectful  and  intelligent  waiter. 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  357 

if  this  statement  is  not  true  ?  And  when  we  liad  finished  that 
magnum,  and  I  said — for  I  did  not  now  in  tlie  least  doubt  of  her 
presence—"  Dear  gr-nny,  may  we  have  another  magnum  1 " — the 
table  distinctly  rapped  "  No." 

"Now,  my  good  sir,"  Mr.  Pinto  said,  who  really  began  to  be 
affected  by  the  wine,  "  you  understand  the  interest  I  have  taken  in 

you.    I  loved  Eliza "  (of  course  I  don't  mention  family  names). 

"  I  knew  you  had  that  box  which  belonged  to  her — I  will  give  you 
what  you  like  for  that  box.  Name  your  price  at  once,  and  I  pay 
you  on  the  spot." 

"  Why,  when  we  came  out,  you  said  you  had  not  sixpence  in 
your  pocket." 

"  Bah  !  give  you  anything  you  like — fifty — a  hundred — a 
tausend  pound." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  I,  "  the  gold  of  the  box  may  be  worth  nine 
guineas,  and  the  faron,  we  will  put  at  six  more." 

"  One  tausend  guineas  ! "  he  screeched.  "  One  tausend  and 
fifty  pound,  dcre  ! "  and  he  sank  back  in  his  chair — no,  by  the 
way,  on  his  bench,  for  he  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  one  of  the 
partitions  of  the  boxes,  as  I  daresay  James  remembers. 

^'  Don't  go  on  in  tliis  way,"  I  continued,  rather  weakly,  for  I 
did  not  know  whether  I  was  in  a  dream.  "  If  you  offer  me  a 
thousand  guineas  for  this  box  I  must  take  it.  Mustn't  I,  dear 
gr-nny  % " 

The  table  most,  distinctly  said,  "  Yes ; "  and  putting  out  his 
claws  to  seize  the  box,  Mr.  Pinto  plunged  his  hooked  nose  into  it 
and  eagerly  inhaled  some  of  my  '47  with  a  dash  of  Hardman. 

"  But  stay,  you  old  harpy  ! "  I  exclaimed,  being  now  in  a  sort 
of  rage,  and  quite  familiar  with  him.  "  Where  is  the  money  1 
Where  is  the  cheque  1 " 

"  James,  a  piece  of  note-paper  and  a  receipt-stamp  !  " 

"This  is  all  mighty  well,  sir,"  I  said,  "but  I  don't  know  you; 
I  never  saw  you  before.  I  will  trouble  you  to  hand  me  that  box 
back  again,  or  give  me  a  cheque  with  some  known  signature." 

"Whose?     Ha,  Ha,  HA!" 

The  room  happened  to  be  very  dark.  Indeed,  all  the  waiters 
were  gone  to  supper,  an<l  there  were  only  two  gentlemen  snoring  in 
their  respective  boxes.  I  saw  a  hand  come  quivering  down  from 
the  ceiling — a  very  pretty  hand,  on  which  was  a  ring  with  a  coronet, 
with  a  lion  rampant  gules  for  a  creist.  /  saw  that  hand  kike  a  dip 
of  ink  a,nd  invite,  across  the  paj^er.  Mr.  Pinto,  then  taking  a  grey 
I'eceipt-stani])  out  of  his  blue  leather  ])0('ket-book,  fastened  it  on  to 
the  paper  by  the  usual  j)rocess  ;  and  the  haiul  then  wrote  across 
the   receipt-stamp,  went  across  the   table  and  shook  hands  with 


358  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Pinto,  and  then,  as  if  waving  hiiu  an  adieu,  vanished  in  the  direction 
of  the  ceiling. 

There  was  the  paper  before  me,  wet  with  tlie  ink.  There  was 
ihe  pen  which  the  hand  had  used.  Does  anybody  doubt  me  ?  1 
have  that  x>^n  now.  A  cedar-stick  of  a  not  uncommon  sort,  and 
holding  one  of  Gillott's  pens.  It  is  in  my  inkstand  now,  I  tell  you. 
Anybody  may  see  it.  The  handwriting  on  the  cheque,  for  such 
the  document  was,  was  the  writing  of  a  female.  It  ran  thus  : — 
"  London,  midnight,  March  31,  1862.  Pay  the  bearer  one  thousand 
and  fifty  pounds.  Rachel  Sidonia.  To  Messrs,  Sidonia,  Pozzo- 
santo  &  Co.,  London." 

"  Noblest  and  best  of  women  !  "  said  Pinto,  kissing  the  sheet  of 
paper  with  much  reverence.  "  My  good  Mr.  Roundabout,  I  suppose 
you  do  not  question  that  signature  ? " 

Indeed,  the  house  of  Sidonia,  Pozzosanto  &  Co.  is  known  to  be 
one  of  the  richest  in  Europe,  and  as  for  the  Countess  Rachel,  she 
was  known  to  be  the  chief  manager  of  that  enormously  wealthy 
establishment.  There  was  only  one  little  difficulty,  the  Countess 
Rachel  died  last  October. 

I  pointed  out  this  circumstance,  and  tossed  over  the  jiaper  to 
Pinto  with  a  sneer. 

"  C'est  k  brendre  ou  li  laisser,"  he  said  with  some  heat.  "  You 
literary  men  are  all  imbrudent ;  but  I  did  not  tink  you  such  a  fool 
wie  dis.  Your  box  is  not  worth  twenty  pound,  and  I  offer  you  a 
tausend  because  I  know  you  want  money  to  pay  dat  rascal  Tom's 
college  bills."  (This  strange  man  actually  knew  that  my  scape- 
grace Tom  has  been  a  source  of  great  expense  and  annoyance  to 
me.)  "You  see  money  costs  me  nothing,  and  you  refuse  to  take 
it !  Once,  twice ;  will  you  take  this  cheque  in  exchange  for  your 
trumpery  snutf-box  1 " 

What  could  I  do  1  My  poor  granny's  legacy  was  valuable  and 
dear  to  me,  but  after  all  a  thousand  guineas  are  not  to  be  had  every 
day,  "Be  it  a  bargain,"  said  I.  "Shall  we  have  a  glass  of  wine 
on  it  1 "  says  Pinto  ;  and  to  this  proposal  I  also  unwillingly  acceded, 
reminding  him,  by  the  way,  that  he  had  not  yet  told  me  the  story 
of  the  headless  man. 

"  Your  poor  gr-ndm-ther  was  right  just  now,  when  she  said 
she  was  not  my  first  love.  'Twas  one  of  those  hanale  expressions  " 
(iiere  Mr.  P.  blushed  once  more)  "which  we  use  to  women.  We 
tell  each  she  is  our  first  passion.  They  reply  with  a  similar  illusory 
formula.  No  man  is  any  woman's  first  love  ;  no  woman  any  man's. 
We  are  in  love  in  our  nurse's  arms,  and  women  coquette  with  their 
eyes  before  their  tongue  can  form  a  word.     How  could  your  lovely 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  359 

relative  love  me  ?  I  was  far,  far  too  old  for  her.  I  am  older  than 
I  look.  I  am  so  old  that  you  would  not  believe  my  age  were  I  to 
tell  you.  I  have  loved  many  and  many  a  woman  before  your 
relative.  It  has  not  always  been  fortunate  for  them  to  love  me. 
Ah,  Sophronia  !  Round  the  dreadful  circus  where  you  fell,  and 
whence  I  was  dragged  corpselike  by  the  heels,  there  sat  multitudes 
more  savage  than  the  lions  which  mangled  your  sweet  form  !  Ah, 
tenez  !  when  we  marched  to  the  terrible  stake  together  at  Valladolid 

—the  Protestant  and  the  J But  away  with  memory  !     Boy  ! 

it  was  hajjpy  for  thy  grandam  that  she  loved  me  not. 

"  During  that  strange  period,"  he  went  on,  "when  the  teeming 
Time  was  great  with  the  revolution  that  was  speedily  to  be  born, 
I  was  on  a  mission  in  Paris  with  my  excellent,  my  maligned  friend, 
Cagliostro.  Mesmer  was  one  of  our  band.  I  seemed  to  occupy 
but  an  obscure  rank  in  it ;  though,  as  you  know,  in  secret  societies 
the  humble  man  may  be  a  chief  and  director — the  ostensible  leader 
but  a  puppet  moved  by  unseen  hands.  Never  mind  who  was  chief, 
or  who  was  second.  Never  mind  my  age.  It  boots  not  to  tell  it : 
why  should  I  expose  myself  to  your  scornful  incredulity  or  reply  to 
your  questions  in  words  that  are  familiar  to  you,  but  which  yet 
yxju  cannot  understand  1  "Words  are  symbols  of  things  which  you 
know,  or  of  things  which  you  don't  know.  If  you  don't  know  them, 
to  speak  is  idle."  (Here  I  confess  Mr.  P.  spoke  for  exactly  thirty- 
eight  minutes,  about  physics,  metaphysics,  language,  the  origin  and 
destiny  of  man,  during  which  time  I  was  rather  bored,  and,  to  relieve 
my  eimui,  drank  a  half  glass  or  so  of  wine.)  "Love,  friend,  is 
the  fountain  of  youth  !  It  may  not  happen  to  me  once — once  in 
an  age  :  but  when  I  love,  then  I  am  young.  I  loved  when  I  w\as  in 
Paris.  Bathilde,  Batliilde,  I  loved  thee — ah,  how  fondly  !  Wine, 
I  say,  more  wine  !  Love  is  ever  young.  I  was  a  boy  at  the  little 
feet  of  Bathilde  de  Bechamel — the  fair,  the  fond,  the  fickle,  ah,  the 
false  ! "  The  strange  old  man's  agony  was  here  really  terrific,  and 
he  showed  himself  nuich  more  agitated  than  he  had  been  when 
speaking  about  my  gr-ndm-tli-r. 

"  I  thought  Blanche  might  love  me.  I  could  speak  to  her  in 
the  language  of  all  countries,  and  tell  her  the  lore  of  all  ages.  I 
could  trace  the  nursery  legends  whi(;h  she  loved  up  to  their  Sanscrit 
source,  and  whisper  to  her  the  darkling  mysteries  of  Egyptian  INIagi. 
I  could  chant  for  her  the  wild  chorus  that  rang  in  the  dislievellcd 
Eleusinian  revel :  I  could  tell  her,  an  I  woidd,  the  watchword 
never  known  but  to  one  woman,  the  Saban  Queen,  which  Hiram 
breathed  in  the  abysmal  ear  of  Solomon — You  don't  attend. 
Psha  !  you  have  drunk  too  much  wine  ! "  Perhaps  I  may  as  well 
own  that  I  was  not  attending,  for  he  had  been  carrying  on  for 


360  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS 

about  fifty-seveii   minutes;  and   I   don't  like  a  man  to  have  all 
the  talk  to  himself. 

"Blanche  de  Bechamel  was  wild,  then,  about  this  secret  of 
Masonry.  In  early  early  days  I  loved,  I  married  a  girl  fair  as 
Blanche,  who,  too,  was  tormented  by  curiosity,  who,  too,  would 
peep  into  my  closet— into  the  only  secret  I  guarded  from  her.  A 
dreadful  ftite  befell  poor  Fatima.  An  accident  shortened  her  life. 
Poor  thing !  she  had  a  foolish  sister  who  urged  her  on.  I  always 
told  her  to  beware  of  Ann.  She  died.  They  said  her  brothers 
killed  me.  A  gross  falsehood.  Am  I  dead?  If  I  were,  could  I 
pledge  you  in  tliis  wine  ? " 

"Was  your  name,"  I  asked,  quite  bewildered,  "was  your  name, 
pray,  then,  ever  Blueb 1 " 

"  Hush  !  the  waiter  will  overhear  you.  Metliought  we  were 
speaking  of  Blanche  de  Bdchamel.  I  loved  her,  young  man.  My 
pearls,  and  diamonds,  and  treasure,  my  wit,  my  wisdom,  my  passion, 
I  flung  them  all  into  the  child's  lap.  I  was  a  fool !  AVas  strong 
Sampson  not  as  weak  as  I  ?     Was  Solomon  the  Wise  mucli  better 

when  Balkis  wheedled  him  ?     I  said  to  the  King But  enough 

of  that,  I  spake  of  Blanche  de  Bdchamel. 

"  Curiosity  was  the  poor  child's  foible.  I  could  see,  as  I  talked 
to  her,  that  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere  (as  yours,  my  friend,  have 
been  absent  once  or  twice  to-night).  To  know  the  secret  of  Masonry 
was  the  wretched  child's  mad  desire.  With  a  thousand  wiles,  smiles, 
caresses,  she  strove  to  coax  it  from  me — from  7rte— ha!  ha  ! 

"I  had  an  apprentice— the  son  of  a  dear  friend,  Avho  died  by 
my  side  at  Rossbach,  when  Soubise,  with  whose  arn)y  I  happened 
to  be,  suffered  a  ilreadful  defeat  for  neglecting  my  advice.  The 
young  Chevalier  Goby  de  Mouchy  was  glad  enough  to  serve  as  my 
clerk,  and  help  in  some  chemical  experiments  in  which  I  was  en- 
gaged with  my  friend  Doctor  Mesmer.  Bathilde  saw  this  young 
man.  Since  women  were,  has  it  not  been  their  business  to  smile 
and  deceive,  to  fondle  and  lure  ?  Away  !  from  the  very  first  it  has 
been  so !  "  And  as  my  companion  spoke,  he  looked  as  wicked  as 
the  serpent  that  coiled  round  the  tree,  and  hissed  a  i)oisoned  counsel 
to  the  first  woman. 

"  One  evening  I  went,  as  was  my  wont,  to  see  Blanche.  She 
was  radiant :  she  was  wild  A\ith  spirits  :  a  saucy  triumph  blazed 
in  her  blue  eyes.  She  talked,  she  rattled  on  in  her  childish  way. 
She  uttered,  in  the  course  of  her  rhapsody,  a  hint — an  intimation — 
so  terrible  that  the  truth  flashed  across  me  in  a  moment.  Did  I 
ask  her?  She  would  lie  to  me.  But  I  know  how  to  make  false- 
hood impossible.     And  I  ordered  her  to  go  to  sleep." 

At   this   moment   the   clock   (after   its  previous    convulsions) 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  36l 

sounded  Twelve.  And  as  the  new  Editor*  of  the  Comhill 
Magazine — and  fie,  I  promise  you,  won't  stand  any  nonsense — will 
only  allow  seven  pages,  I  am  obliged  to  leave  off  at  the  very  most 

INTEBESTING  POINT  OF  THE  STOPwY. 


Part  III. 

ARE  you  of  our  fraternity?  I  see  you  are  not.  The  secret 
A-X  which  Mademoiselle  de  Bechamel  confided  to  me  in  her  mad 
■*  *■  triumph  and  wild  hoyden  spirits — she  was  but  a  child,  poor 
thing,  poor  thing,  scarce  fifteen  : — but  I  love  them  young^a  folly 
not  unusual  with  the  old  ! "  (Here  Mr.  Pinto  thrust  his  knuckles 
into  his  hollow  eyes ;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  so  little  regardful 
was  he  of  personal  cleanliness,  that  his  tears  made  streaks  of  white 
over  his  gnarled  dark  hands.)  "Ah,  at  fifteen,  poor  child,  thy 
fate  was  terrible  !  Go  to  !  It  is  not  good  to  love  me,  friend. 
They  prosper  not  who  do.  I  divine  you.  You  need  not  say  what 
you  are  thinking " 

In  truth,  I  was  thinking,  if  girls  fall  in  love  with  tiiis  sallow, 
hook-nosed,  glass-eyed,  wooden-leggeil,  dirty,  hideous  old  man,  with 
the  sham  teeth,  they  have  a  queer  taste.  That  is  what  I  was 
thinking. 

"  Jack  Wilkes  said  the  handsomest  man  in  London  had  but 
half-an-hour's  start  of  him.  And  without  vanity,  I  am  scarcely 
uglier  than  Jack  Wilkes.  We  were  members  of  the  same  club  at 
Medmenhani  Abbey,  Jack  and  I,  and  had  many  a  merry  night 
together.  Well,  sir,  I — Mary  of  Scotland  knew  me  but  as  a  little 
hunchbacked  nuisic-master ;  and  yet,  and  yet,  I  think  she  was  not 

indifferent  to  her  David  Riz and  she  came  to  misfortune.     They 

all  do— they  all  do  !  " 

"  Sir,  you  are  wandering  from  your  ])oint ! "  I  said,  with  some 
severity.  For,  really,  for  this  old  humbug  to  hint  that  he  had 
been  the  baboon  who  frightened  the  club  at  Medmenham,  that  he 
had  been  in  the  Inquisition  at  Valladolid — that  imder  the  name  of 
D.  Riz,  as  he  called  it,  he  had  known  the  lovely  Queen  of  Scots — 
was  a  little  too  much.  "Sir,"  tlien  I  said,  "you  were  speaking 
about  a  Miss  de  Bdchamel.  I  really  have  not  time  to  hear  all 
your  biography." 

"  Faith,  the  good  wine  gets  into  my  head."     (I  should  think  so, 

*  Mr.  Thackeray  retired  from  tho  Editorship  of  the  Comhill  Magazine  in 
March  1862. 


362  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

the  old  topei" !  Four  bottles  all  but  two  glasses.)  "  To  return  to 
poor  Blau(;lie.  As  I  sat  laughing,  joking  with  her,  she  let  slip  a 
word,  a  little  word,  which  filled  me  with  dismay.  Some  one  had  told 
her  a  pai't  of  the  Secret — the  secret  which  has  been  divulged  scarce 
thrice  in  tliree  thousand  years — the  Secret  of  the  Freemasons.  Do 
you  know  what  happens  to  those  uninitiate  who  learn  that  secret  ? 
to  those  wretched  men,  the  initiate  who  reveal  it  1 " 

As  Pinto  spoke  to  me,  he  looked  through  and  through  me  with 
his  horrible  piercing  glance,  so  that  I  sat  quite  uneasily  on  my 
bench.  He  continued  :  "  Did  I  question  her  awake,  I  knew  she 
would  lie  to  me.  Poor  child !  I  loved  her  no  less  because  I  did 
not  believe  a  word  she  said.  I  loved  her  blue  eye,  her  golden  hair, 
lier  delicious  voice,  that  was  true  in  song,  though  when  she  spoke, 
false  as  Eblis  !  You  are  aware  that  I  possess  in  rather  a  remark- 
able degree  what  we  have  agreed  to  call  the  mesmeric  power.  I 
set  the  unhappy  girl  to  sleep.  Then  she  was  obliged  to  tell  me  all. 
It  was  as  I  had  surmised.  Goby  de  Mouchy,  my  wretched,  besotted, 
miserable  secretary,  in  his  visits  to  the  cliateau  of  the  old  Marquis 
de  Bdchamel,  who  was  one  of  our  society,  had  seen  Blanche.  I 
suppose  it  was  because  she  had  been  warned  that  he  was  worthless, 
and  poor,  artful,  and  a  coward,  slie  loved  him.  Slie  wormed  out  of 
the  besotted  wretcli  the  secrets  of  our  Order.  'Did  he  tell  you 
the  NUMBER  ONE  ? '  I  askcd. 

"  She  said,  '  Yes.' " 

"  '  Did  lie,'  I  further  inquired,  '  tell  you  the ' 

" '  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  don't  ask  me  ! '  she  said,  writiiing  on  the 
sofa,  where  she  lay  in  the  presence  of  the  Marquis  de  Bechamel, 
her  most  unhappy  father.  Poor  Bechamel,  poor  Be'cliamel !  How 
pale  he  looked  as  I  spoke !  '  Did  he  tell  you,'  I  rei)eated  with  a 
dreadful  calm,  'the  number  two?'     She  said,  'Yes.' 

"  The  iioor  old  Marquis  rose  up,  and  clasping  his  hands,  fell  on 

his   knees  before   Count   Cagl Bah  !   I  went   by  a  different 

name  then.  Vat's  in  a  name  1  Dat  vich  ve  call  a  Rosicrucian 
by  any  other  name  vil  smell  as  sveet.  '  Monsieur,'  he  said,  *  I  am 
old — -I  am  rich.  I  have  five  hundred  thousand  livres  of  rentes 
in  Picardy.  I  have  half  as  much  in  Artois.  I  have  two  hundred 
and  eighty  thousand  on  the  Grand  Livre.  I  am  promised  by 
my  Sovereign  a  dukedom  and  his  orders  with  a  reversion  to 
my  heir.  I  am  a  grandee  of  Spain  of  the  First  Class,  and  Duke 
of  Volovento.  Take  my  titles,  my  ready  money,  my  life,  my 
honour,  everything  I  have  in  the  world,  but  don't  ask  the  third 

QUESTION.' 

" '  Godefroid  de  Bouillon,  Comte  de  Be'chamel,  Grandee  of 
Spain  and  Prince  of  Volovento,  in  our  Assembly  what  was  the  oath 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  363 

you  swore?'     The  old  man  writhed  as  he  remembered  its  terrific 
purport. 

"  Though  my  heart  was  racked  with  agony,  and  I  woukl  have 
died,  ay,  cheerfully "  (died,  indeed,  as  if  that  were  a  penalty  !), 
"  to  spare  yonder  lovely  child  a  pang,  I  said  to  her  calndy,  '  Blanche 
de   Bechamel,    did   Goby   de    Mouchy   tell    you   secret    number 

THREE  1 ' 

"  She  whispered  a  out,  that  was  quite  faint,  faint  and  small. 
But  her  poor  father  fell  in  convulsions  at  her  feet. 

"She  died  suddenly  that  night.  Did  I  not  tell  you  those  I 
love  come  to  no  good  1  When  General  Bonai)arte  crossed  the  Saint 
Bernard,  he  saw  in  the  convent  an  old  monk  with  a  white  beard, 
wandering  about  the  corridors,  cheerful  and  rather  stout,  but  mad 
■ — mad  as  a  March  hare.  '  General,'  I  said  to  him,  '  did  you  ever 
see  that  face  before  1 '  He  had  not.  He  had  not  mingled  much 
with  the  higher  classes  of  our  society  before  the  Revolution.  / 
knew  the  poor  old  man  well  enough ;  he  was  the  last  of  a  noble 
race,  and  I  loved  his  child." 

"  And  did  she  die  by ? " 

"  Man !  did  I  say  so  1  Do  I  whisper  the  secrets  of  the 
Vehmgericht  1  I  say  she  died  that  night :  and  he — he,  the  hearts 
less,  the  villain,  the  betrayer — you  saw  him  seated  in  yonder 
curiosity-shop,  by  yonder  guillotine,  with  his  scoundrelly  head  in 
his  lap. 

"  You  saw  how  slight  that  instrument  was  ?  It  was  one  of  the 
first  which  Guillotin  ma<]e,  and  which  he  showed  to  private  friends 
in  a  haiKjar  in  the  Rue  Picpus,  where  he  lived.  The  invention 
created  some  little  conversation  amongst  scientific  men  at  the  time, 
though  I  remember  a  machine  in  Edinburgh  of  a  very  similar 
construction,  two  hundred — well,  many  many  years  ago — and  at  a 
breakfast  which  Guillotin  gave  he  showed  us  the  instrument,  and 
much  talk  arose  amongst  us  as  to  whether  people  suftered  luider  it. 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you  what  befell  the  traitor  who  had 
caused  all  this  suffering.  Diil  he  know  that  the  poor  child's  death 
was  a  SENTENCE?  He  felt  a  cowardly  satisfaction  that  with  her 
was  gone  the  secret  of  his  treason.  Then  he  began  to  doubt.  I 
had  MEANS  to  penetrate  all  his  thoughts,  as  well  as  to  know  his 
acts.  Then  he  became  a  slave  to  a  horrible  fear.  He  fled  in  abject 
terror  to  a  convent.  They  still  existed  in  Paris  :  and  behind  the 
walls  of  Jacobins  the  wretch  thought  himself  secure.  Poor  fool !  I 
had  but  to  set  one  of  my  somnambulists  to  sleep.  Her  spirit  went 
forth  and  s])ied  the  shuddering  wretch  in  his  cell.  She  descril)ed 
the  street,  the  gate,  the  convent,  the  very  dress  which  he  wore,  and 
which  you  saw  to-day. 


364  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"And  now  this  is  what  happened.  In  liis  chainher  in  the  Rue 
Saint  Honord,  at  Paris,  sat  a  man  alone — a  man  who  has  been 
mali.gned,  a  man  who  has  been  called  a  knave  and  charlatan,  a 
man  who  has  been  persecuted  even  to  the  death,  it  is  said,  in  Roman 
Inquisitions,  forsooth,  and  elsewhere.  Ha !  lia  !  A  man  who  has 
a  mighty  will. 

"And  looking  towards  the  Jacobins  Convent  (of  which,  from 
his  chamber,  he  could  see  the  spires  and  trees),  this  man  willed. 
And  it  was  not  yet  dawn.  And  he  willed ;  and  one  wlio  was  lying 
in  his  cell  in  the  convent  of  Jacobins,  awake  and  shuddering  with 
terror  for  a  crime  which  he  had  committed,  fell  asleep. 

"  But  though  he  was  asleep  his  eyes  were  open. 

"  And  after  tossing  and  writhing,  and  clinging  to  the  pallet,  and 
saying,  '  No,  I  will  not  go,'  lie  rose  up  and  donned  his  clothes — a 
grey  coat,  a  vest  of  white  pique,  black  satin  smallclothes,  ribbed 
silk  stockings,  and  a  white  stock  with  a  steel  buckle  ;  and  he 
arranged  his  hair,  and  lie  tied  his  queue,  all  the  while  being  in  that 
strange  somnolence  which  walks,  which  moves,  which  flies  some- 
times, which  sees,  which  is  indifferent  to  pain,  which  obeys.  And 
he  put  on  his  hat,  and  he  went  forth  from  his  cell ;  and  though  the 
dawn  was  not  yet,  he  trod  the  corridors  as  seeing  them.  And  he 
passed  into  the  cloister,  and  then  into  the  garden  where  lie  the 
ancient  dead.  And  he  came  to  the  wicket,  which  Brother  Jerome 
was  opening  just  at  the  dawning.  And  the  crowd  was  already 
waiting  with  their  cans  and  bowls  to  receive  the  alms  of  the  good 
brethren. 

"  And  he  passed  througli  the  crowd  and  went  on  his  way,  and 
the  few  people  then  abroad  who  marked  him,  said,  '  Tiens  !  How 
very  odd  he  looks !  He  looks  like  a  man  walking  in  his  sleep  ! ' 
This  was  said  by  various  persons  : — 

"  By  milk-women,  with  their  cans  and  carts,  coming  into  the 
town. 

"  By  roysterers  who  had  been  drinking  at  the  taverns  of  the 
Barrier,  for  it  was  Mid-Lent. 

"  By  the  sergeants  of  the  watch,  who  eyed  him  sternly  as  he 
passed  near  their  halberds. 

"  But  he  passed  on  unmoved  by  the  halberds, 

"  Unmoved  by  the  cries  of  the  roysterers, 

"  By  the  market-women  coming  with  their  milk  and  eggs. 

"  He  walked  through  the  Rue  Saint  Honord,  I  say : — 

"  By  the  Rue  Rambuteau, 

"  By  the  Rue  Saint  Antoine, 

"  By  the  King's  Chateau  of  the  Bastille, 

"  By  the  Faubourg  Saint  Antoine. 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  365 

"And  he  came  to  No.  29  in  the  Rue  Picpus — a  house  wliich 
then  stood  between  a  court  and  garden 

"  That  is,  there  was  a  building  of  one  story,  with  a  great  coach- 
door. 

*'  Then  there  was  a  court,  around  which  were  stables,  coach- 
houses, offices. 

"  Then  there  was  a  house — a  two-storied  house,  with  a  ^:>(??to?i 
in  front. 

"  Behind  the  house  was  a  garden — a  garden  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  French  feet  in  length. 

"  And  as  one  hundred  feet  of  France  equal  one  hundred  and 
six  feet  of  England,  this  garden,  my  ft-iends,  equalled  exactly  two 
hundred  and  sixty-five  feet  of  British  measure. 

"  In  the  centre  of  the  garden  was  a  fountain  and  a  statue — 
or,  to  speak  more  correctlj^,  two  statues.  One  was  recumbent, — a 
man.     Ov^er  him,  sabre  in  hand,  stood  a  woman. 

"  The  man  was  Olofernes.  The  woman  was  Judith.  From  the 
head,  from  the  trunk,  the  water  gushed.  It  was  the  taste  of  the 
doctor  ; — was  it  not  a  droll  of  taste  1 

*'  At  the  end  of  the  garden  was  the  doctor's  cabinet  of  study. 
My  faith,  a  singular  cabinet,  and  singular  pictures  ! — 

"  Decapitation  of  Charles  Premier  at  Vitehall. 

"  Decapitation  of  Montrose  at  Edimbourg. 

"  De(;apitation  of  Cinq  Mars.  When  I  tell  you  that  he  was  a 
man  of  a  taste,  charming  ! 

'■'  Through  this  garden,  by  these  statues,  uj)  those  stairs,  went 
the  i)ale  figure  of  him  who,  the  porter  said,  knew  the  way  of  the 
house.  He  did.  Turning  neither  right  nor  left,  he  seemed  to  walk 
through  thS  statues,  tlie  obstacles,  the  flower-beds,  the  stairs,  the 
door,  the  tables,  the  chairs. 

"  In  the  corner  of  the  room  was  that  instrument  which 
Guillotin  had  just  invented  and  perfected.  One  day  he  was  to  lay 
his  own  head  under  his  own  axe.  Peace  be  to  his  name  !  With 
him  I  deal  not ! 

"  In  a  frame  of  mahogany,  neatly  worked,  was  a  board  with 
a  half-circle  in  it,  over  which  another  board  fitted.  Above  was  a 
heavy  axe,  which  fell — yoii  know  how.  It  was  held  up  by  a  rope, 
and  when  this  rope  was  untied,  or  cut,  the  steel  fell. 

"To  the  story  which  I  now  have  to  relate  you  may  give  credence, 
or  not,  as  you  will.     The  sleeping  man  went  up  to  that  instrument. 

"  He  laid  his  head  in  it,  asleep." 

"  Asleep ! " 

"  He  then  took  a  little  penknife  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  white 
dimity  waistcoat. 


366  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"  He  cut  the  rope  asleep. 

"  The  axe  descended  on  the  head  of  the  traitor  and  villain.  The 
notch  in  it  was  made  by  the  steel  buckle  of  his  stock,  which  was 
cut  through. 

"  A  strange  legend  has  got  abroad  that  after  the  deed  was  done, 
the  figure  rose,  took  the  head  from  the  basket,  walked  forth  through 
the  garden,  and  by  the  screaming  jjorters  at  the  gate,  and  went  and 
laid  itself  down  at  the  Morgue.  But  for  this  I  will  not  vouch. 
Only  of  this  be  sm'c.  '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Horatio,  than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.'  More  and  more 
the  light  peeps  through  the  chinks.  Soon,  amidst  music  ravishing, 
the  curtain  will  rise,  and  the  glorious  scene  be  displayed.  Adieu ! 
Remember  me.     Ha  !  'tis  dawn,"  Pinto  said.     And  he  was  gone. 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  my  first  movement  was  to  clutch  the 
cheque  which  he  had  left  with  me,  and  which  I  was  determined  to 
present  the  very  moment  the  bank  opened.  I  know  the  importance 
of  these  things,  aiid  that  men  change  their  mind  sometimes.  I 
sprang  through  the  streets  to  the  great  banking  house  of  Manasseh 
in  Duke  Street.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  actually  flew  as  I  walked. 
As  the  clock  struck  ten  I  was  at  the  counter  and  laid  down  my 
cheque. 

The  gentleman  who  received  it,  who  was  one  of  the  Hebrew 
persuasion,  as  were  the  other  two  hundred  clerks  of  the  establish- 
ment, having  looked  at  the  draft  with  terror  in  his  countenance, 
then  looked  at  me,  then  called  to  himself  two  of  his  fellow- 
clerks,  and  queer  it  was  to  see  all  their  aquiline  beaks  over  the 
paper. 

"Come,  come!"  said  I,  "don't  keep  me  here  all  day.  Hand 
me  over  the  money,  short,  if  you  please  ! "  for  I  was,  you  see,  a 
little  alarmed,  and  so  determined  to  assume  some  extra  bluster. 

"  Will  you  have  tlie  kindness  to  step  into  the  parlour  to  the 
partners  % "  the  clerk  said,  and  I  followed  him. 

"  Wliat,  again  ?  "  shrieked  a  bald-headed,  red-whiskered  gentle- 
man, wlioin  I  knew  to  be  Mr.  Manasseh.  "Mr.  Salathiel,  this  is 
too  bad.  Leave  me  with  this  gentleman,  S."  And  the  clerk 
disappeared. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  know  how  you  came  by  this ;  the  Count  de 
Pinto  gave  it  you.  It  is  too  bad  !  I  honour  my  parents  ;  I  honour 
their  parents ;  I  honour  their  bills  !  But  this  one  of  grandma's  is 
too  bad — it  is,  upon  my  word,  now !  She've  been  dead  these  five- 
and-tliirty  years.  And  this  last  four  months  she  has  left  her  burial- 
place  an(i  took  to  drawing  on  our  'ouse  !  It's  too  bad,  grandma ; 
it  is  too  bad  ! "  and  he  appealed  to  me,  and  tears  actually  trickled 
down  his  nose. 


THE    NOTCH    ON    THE    AXE  361 

"Is  it  tlie  Countess  Sidonia's  clieque  or  nof?"  I  asked 
haughtih'. 

"But,  I  tell  you,  she's  dead  !  It's  a  shame  ! — it's  a  shame  ! — 
it  is,  grandmamma ! "  and  he  cried,  and  wiped  his  great  nose  in  his 
yellow  pocket-handkerchief.  "Look  year — will  you  take  pounds 
instead  of  guineas  1  She's  dead,  I  tell  you  !  It's  no  go  !  Take  the 
pounds — one  tausend  pound  ! — ten  nice,  neat,  crisp  hundred-pound 
notes,  and  go  away  vid  you,  do  ! " 

"  I  will  have  my  bond,  sir,  or  notliing,"  I  said ;  and  I  put  on 
an  attitude  of  resolution  which  I  confess  suriirised  even  myself. 

'!  Wery  veil,"  he  shrieked,  with  many  oaths,  "then  you  shall  have 
noting — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — noting  but  a  policeman  !  Mr.  Abednego,  call 
a  ]joliceman !  Take  that,  you  humbug  and  im]K)stor  ! "  and  here, 
with  an  abundance  of  frightful  language  which  I  dare  not  repeat, 
the  wealthy  banker  abused  and  defied  me. 

Au  bout  du  comjite,  what  was  I  to  do,  if  a  banker  did  not 
choose  to  honour  a  cheque  drawn  by  his  dead  grandmother?  I 
began  to  wish  I  had  my  snuff-box  back.  I  began  to  think  I  was 
a  fool  for  changing  that  little  old-fashioned  gold  for  this  slip  of 
strange  paper. 

Meanwhile  the  banker  had  passed  from  his  fit  of  anger  to  a 
paroxysm  of  despair.  He  seemed  to  be  addressing  some  person 
invisible,  but  in  the  room  :  "  Look  here,  ma'am,  you've  really  been 
coming  it  too  strong.  A  hundred  thousand  in  six  months,  and  now 
a  thousand  more  !  The  'ouse  can't  stand  it ;  it  won't  stand  it,  I 
say  !     What  1     Oh  !  mercy,  mercy  !  " 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  A  HANI)  fluttered  over  the  table  in 
the  air !  It  was  a  female  hand  :  that  which  I  had  seen  the  night 
before.  That  female  hand  took  a  pen  from  the  green-baize  table, 
dipped  it  in  a  silver  inkstand,  and  wrote  on  a  quarter  of  a  sheet  of 
foolscap  on  the  blotting-book,  "How  about  the  diamond  robbery? 
If  you  do  not  pay,  I  will  tell  him  where  they  are." 

What  diamonds?  what  robbery?  what  was  this  mystery? 
That  will  never  be  ascertained,  for  the  wretched  man's  demeanour 
instantly  changed.  "  Certainly,  sir  ; — oh,  certainly,"  he  said,  forcing 
a  grin.  "  How  will  you  have  the  money,  sir  ?  All  right,  Mr. 
Abednego.     This  way  out." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  often  see  you  again,"  I  said  ;  on  which  I  own 
poor  Manasseh  gave  a  dreadful  grin,  and  shot  back  into  his  pai'lonr. 

I  ran  home,  clutching  the  ten  delicious,  crisj)  liundred  jiounds, 
and  the  dear  little  fifty  which  made  up  the  account.  I  flew  through 
the  streets  again.  I  got  to  my  chambers.  I  bolted  the  outer  doors. 
I  sank  back  in  my  great  chair  and  slept.   .  .  . 

My  first  thing  on  waking  was  to  feel  for  my  money.     Perdition] 


368  nOUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Where  was  I  ?  Ha ! — on  the  table  before  nie  was  my  grand- 
mother's snuft-box,  and  by  its  side  one  of  those  awful — those 
admirable — sensation  novels,  which  I  had  been  reading,  and  which 
are  full  of  delicious  wonder. 

But  that  the  guillotine  is  still  to  be  seen  at  Mr.  Gale's,  No.  47 
Higli  Holborn,  I  give  you  my  honour.  I  suppose  I  was  dreaming 
about  it.  I  don't  know.  What  is  dreaming'?  What  is  life?  Why 
shouldn't  I  sleep  on  the  ceiling  1 — and  am  I  sitting  on  it  now,  or  on 
the  floor?  I  am  puzzled.  But  enough.  If  the  fashion  for  sensation 
novels  goes  on,  I  tell  you  I  will  write  one  in  fifty  volumes.  For 
the  present,  DIXI.  But  between  ourselves,  this  Pinto,  who  fought 
at  the  Colosseum,  who  was  nearly  being  roasted  by  the  Inquisition, 
and  sang  duets  at  Holyrood,  I  am  rather  sorry  to  lose  him  after 
three  little  bits  of  Roundabout  Papers.     £t  vous  ? 


DE  FIN  I  BUS 


WHEN  Swift  was  in  love  with  Stella,  and  despatching  her  a 
letter  from  London  thrice  a  month,  by  the  Irish  ])acket, 
you  may  remember  how  he  would  begin  letter  No.  xxiii., 
we  will  say,  on  the  A'ery  day  when  xxii.  had  been  sent  away, 
stealing  out  of  the  coffee-house  or  the  assembly  so  as  to  be  able  to 
prattle  with  his  dear;  "never  letting  go  her  kind  hand,  as  it  were," 
as  some  commentator  or  other  has  said  in  speaking  of  the  Dean  and 
his  amour.  When  Mr.  Johnson,  walking  to  Dodsley's,  and  touching 
the  posts  in  Pall  Mall  as  he  walked,  forgot  to  pat  the  head  of  one 
of  them,  he  went  back  and  imjjosed  his  hands  on  it,— impelled  I 
know  not  by  what  superstition.  I  have  this  I  hope  not  dangerous 
mania  too.  As  soon  as  a  piece  of  work  is  out  of  hand,  and  before 
going  to  sleep,  I  like  to  begin  another ;  it  may  be  to  write  only 
half-a-dozen  lines :  but  that  is  something  towards  Number  the 
Next.  The  printer's  boy  has  not  yet  reached  Green  Arbour  Court 
with  the  copy.  Those  people  who  were  alive  half-an-hour  since, 
Pendenuis,  Clive  Newcome,  and  (what  do  you  call  him  1  what  was 
the  name  of  the  last  hero  1  I  remember  now  !)  Philip  Firmin,  have 
hardly  drunk  their  glass  of  wine,  and  the  mammas  have  only  this 
minute  got  the  children's  cloaks  on,  and  have  been  bowed  out  of  my 
premises — and  here  I  come  back  to  the  study  again  :  tamen  usque 
recurro.  Hom'  lonely  it  looks  now  all  these  people  are  gone  !  My 
dear  good  friends,  some  folk  are  utterly  tired  of  you,  and  say, 
"  What  a  poverty  of  friends  the  man  has  !  He  is  always  asking  us 
to  meet  those  Pendennises,  Newcomes,  and  so  forth.  Why  does  he 
not  introduce  us  to  some  new  characters  ?  Why  is  he  not  thrilling 
like  Twostars,  learned  and  profound  like  Threestars,  exquisitely 
humorous  and  human  like  Fourstars?  Why,  finally,  is  he  not 
somebody  elsel"  My  good  people,  it  is  not  only  impossible  to 
please  you  all,  but  it  is  absurd  to  try.  The  dish  which  one  man 
devours,  another  dislikes.  Is  the  dinner  of  to-day  not  to  your  taste  % 
Let  us  hope  to-morrow's  entertainment  will  be  more  agreeable.  *  *  * 
I  resume  my  original  subjt^ct.  What  an  odd,  pleasant,  humorous, 
melancholy  feeling  it  is  to  sit  in  the  study  alone  and  quiet,  now  all 


370  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

these  people  are  gone  who  have  been  boarding  and  lodging  with  me 
for  twenty  niontlis  !  They  have  interrnpted  my  rest :  they  have 
plagued  me  at  all  sorts  of  minutes :  they  have  tln-ust  themselves 
upon  me  when  I  was  ill,  or  wished  to  be  idle,  and  I  have  growled 
out  a  "Be  hanged  to  you,  can't  you  leave  me  alone  nowr'  Once 
or  twice  they  have  prevented  my  going  out  to  dinner.  Many  and 
many  a  time  they  have  prevented  my  coming  home,  because  I  knew 
tliey  were  there  waiting  in  the  study,  and  a  plague  take  them,  and 
I  have  left  home  and  family,  and  gone  to  dine  at  the  Club,  and  told 
nobody  where  I  went.  They  have  bored  me,  those  people.  They 
have  plagued  me  at  all  sorts  of  uncomfortable  hours.  They  have 
made  such  a  disturbance  in  my  mind  and  house,  that  sometimes  I 
have  hardly  known  what  was  going  on  in  my  family  and  scarcely 
have  lieard  what  my  neighbour  said  to  me.  They  are  gone  at  last, 
and  you  would  expect  me  to  be  at  ease  1  Far  from  it.  I  should 
almost  be  glad  if  Woolcomb  would  walk  in  and  talk  to  me;  or 
Twysden  reappear,  take  his  place  in  that  chair  opposite  me,  and 
begin  one  of  his  tremendous  stories. 

Madmen,  you  know,  see  visions,  hold  conversations  with,  even 
draw  the  likeness  of,  people  invisible  to  you  and  me.  Is  this 
making  of  people  out  of  fancy  madness  1  and  are  novel-writers  at 
all  entitled  to  strait-waistcoats  ?  I  often  forget  people's  names  in 
life ;  and  in  my  own  stories  contritely  own  that  I  make  dreadful 
blunders  regarding  tliem ;  but  I  declare,  my  dear  sir,  with  respect 
to  the  personages  introduced  into  your  humble  servant's  fables,  I 
know  the  people  utterly — I  know  the  sound  of  their  voices.  A 
gentleman  came  in  to  see  me  the  other  day,  who  was  so  like  the 
picture  of  Philip  Firmin  in  Mr.  Walker's  charming  drawings  in  the 
Cornhill  Maffazine  that  he  was  quite  a  curiosity  to  me.  The  same 
eyes,  beard,  shoulders,  just  as  you  have  seen  them  from  month  to 
month.  Well,  he  is  not  like  the  Philip  Firmin  in  my  mind. 
Asleep,  asleep  in  the  grave,  lies  the  bold,  the  generous,  the  reckless, 
the  tender-hearted  creature  whom  I  have  made  to  pass  through 
those  adventures  which  have  just  been  brought  to  an  end.  It  is 
years  since  I  heard  the  laughter  ringing,  or  saw  the  bright  blue 
eyes.  When  I  knew  him  both  were  young.  I  become  young  as  I 
think  of  him.  And  this  morning  he  was  alive  again  in  this  room, 
ready  to  laugh,  to  fight,  to  weep.  As  I  -write,  do  you  know,  it  is 
the  grey  of  evening ;  the  house  is  quiet ;  everybody  is  out ;  the 
room  is  getting  a  little  dark,  and  I  look  rather  wistfully  up  from 
the  paper  with  perhaps  ever  so  little  fancy  that  HE  MAY  COME 

IN. No?     No    movement.     No  grey   shade,   growing   more 

palpable,  out  of  whicli  at  last  look  the  well-known  eyes.     No,  the 
printer  came  and  took  him  away  with  the  last  page  of  the  proofs. 


DE    FINIBUS  371 

And  with  the  printer's  boy  did  the  whole  cortege  of  ghosts  flit  away, 
invisible !  Ha !  stay !  what  is  this  1  Angels  and  ministers  ot 
grace  !  The  door  opens,  and  a  dark  form — enters,  bearing  a  black 
— a  black  suit  of  clothes.  It  is  John.  He  says  it  is  time  to  dress 
for  dinner. 


Every  man  who  has  had  his  German  tutor,  and  has  been 
coached  through  the  famous  "Faust"  of  Goetlie  (thou  wert  my 
instructor,  good  old  Weissenborn,  and  these  eyes  bclield  the  great 
master  himself  in  dear  little  Weimar  town  !)  has  rend  those  charm- 
ing verses  wliicli  are  prefixed  to  the  drama,  in  which  the  poet 
reverts  to  the  time  when  his  work  was  first  composed,  and  recalls 
the  friends  now  departed,  who  once  listened  to  liis  song.  The  dear 
shadows  rise  up  around  him,  he  says ;  he  lives  in  the  past  again. 
It  is  to-day  which  appears  vague  and  visionary.  We  humbler 
writers  cannot  create  Fausts,  or  raise  up  monumental  works  that 
shall  endure  for  all  ages ;  but  our  books  are  diaries,  in  which  our 
own  feelings  nmrst  of  necessity  be  set  down.  As  we  look  to  the 
page  written  last  month,  or  ten  years  ago,  we  remember  the  day 
and  its  events ;  the  child  ill,  mayhap,  in  the  adjoining  room,  and 
the  doubts  and  fears  which  racked  the  brain  as  it  still  i)ursued  its 
work ;  the  dear  old  friend  who  read  the  commencement  of  the  tale, 
and  whose  gentle  hand  sliall  be  laid  in  ours  no  more.  I  own  for 
my  part  that,  in  reading  pages  which  this  hand  i)enncd  formerly,  I 
often  lose  sight  of  the  text  under  my  eyes.  It  is  not  the  words  I 
see ;  but  that  past  day  ;  that  bygone  ])age  of  life's  history  ;  that 
tragedy,  comedy  it  may  be,  wiiich  our  little  home  company  was 
enacting;  that  merrymaking  which  we  shared;  that  funeral  which 
we  followed  ;  that  bitter  bitter  grief  which  we  lan-ied. 

And,  such  being  the  state  of  my  mind,  I  pi'ay  gentle  readers 
to  deal  kindly  with  their  humble  servant's  manifold  shortcomings, 
blunders,  and  slips  of  memory.  As  siu-e  as  I  read  a  page  of  my 
own  composition,  I  find  a  fault  or  two,  half-a-dozen.  Jones  is 
called  Brown.  Brown,  who  is  dead,  is  brought  to  life.  Aghast, 
and  months  after  the  number  was  printed,  I  saw  that  I  had  called 
Philij)  Firmin,  Clive  ]Srew{;ome.  Now  Olive  Newcome  is  the  hero 
of  another  story  by  the  reader's  most  obedient  writer.  The  two 
men  are  as  different,  in  my  mind's  eye,  as — as  Lord  Palnierston 
and  Mr.  Disraeli  let  us  say.  But  there  is  that  blunder  at  i)age  990, 
line  76,  volume  84  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  and  it  is  past  mend- 
ing ;  and  I  wish  in  my  life  I  had  made  no  worse  blunders  or  errors 
than  that  which  is  hereby  acknowledged. 

Another   Finis   written.       Anotlier   mile- stone   passed    on    this 


372  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

journey  from  birth  to  the  next  world  !  Sure  it  is  a  subject  foi 
solemn  cogitation.  Shall  we  continue  this  story-telling  business 
and  be  voluble  to  tlie  end  of  our  age  ?  Will  it  not  be  presently 
time,  0  prattler,  to  hold  your  tongue,  and  let  younger  people  speak  ? 
I  have  a  friend,  a  painter,  who,  like  other  persons  who  shall  be 
nameless,  is  growing  old.  He  has  never  painted  with  such  laborious 
finish  as  his  works  now  show.  This  master  is  still  the  most  humble 
and  diligent  of  scholars.  Of  Art,  his  mistress,  he  is  always  an 
eager  reverent  pupil.  In  his  calling,  in  yours,  in  mine,  industry 
and  humility  will  help  and  comfort  us.  A  word  with  you.  In  a 
pretty  large  experience  I  have  not  found  tlie  men  who  write  books 
superior  in  wit  or  learning  to  those  who  don't  write  at  all.  In 
regard  of  mere  information,  non-writers  nuist  often  be  superior  to 
writers.  You  don't  expect  a  lawyer  in  full  practice  to  be  conversant 
with  all  kinds  of  literature  ;  he  is  too  busy  with  his  law ;  and  so 
a  writer  is  commonly  too  busy  with  his  own  books  to  be  able  to 
bestow  attention  on  the  works  of  other  people.  After  a  day's 
work  (in  which  I  have  been  depicting,  let  us  say,  the  agonies  of 
Louisa  on  parting  with  the  Captain,  or  the  atrocious  behaviour 
of  the  wicked  Marquis  to  Lady  Emily)  I  march  to  the  Club, 
proposing  to  improve  my  mind  and  keep  myself  "  posted  up," 
as  the  Americans  phrase  it,  in  the  literature  of  the  day.  And 
what  happens?  Given,  a  walk  after  luncheon,  a  pleasing  book, 
and  a  most  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  and  you  know  the 
rest.  A  doze  ensues.  Pleasing  book  drops  suddenly,  is  picked  up 
once  with  an  air  of  some  confusion,  is  laid  presently  softly  in  lap  : 
head  f  dls  on  comfortable  arm-chair  cushion  :  eyes  close  :  soft  nasal 
music  is  heard.  Am  I  telling  Club  secrets  1  Of  afternoons,  after 
lunch,  I  say,  scores  of  sensible  fogies  have  a  doze.  Perhaps  I  have 
llillen  asleep  over  that  very  book  to  which  "  Finis  "  has  just  been 
written.  "  And  if  the  writer  sleeps,  what  happens  to  the  readers  ?  " 
says  Jones,  coming  down  upon  me  with  his  lightning  wit.  What  1 
You  did  sleep  over  it  ?  And  a  very  good  thing  too.  These  eyes 
have  more  than  once  seen  a  friend  dozing  over  pages  which  this 
hand  has  written.  There  is  a  vignette  somewhere  in  one  of  my 
books  of  a  friend  so  caught  napping  witli  "  Pendennis,"  or  the 
"  Newcomes,"  in  his  lap ;  and  if  a  writer  can  give  you  a  sweet, 
soothing,  harmless  sleep,  has  he  not  done  you  a  kindness  ?  So  is 
the  author  who  excites  and  interests  you  worthy  of  your  thanks  and 
benedictions.  I  am  troubled  with  fever  and  ague,  that  seize  me 
at  odd  intervals  ami  prostrate  me  for  a  day.  There  is  cold  fit,  for 
which,  I  am  thaidcful  to  say,  hot  brandy-and-water  is  prescribed  ; 
and  this  induces  liot  fit,  and  so  on.  In  one  or  two  of  these  fits 
I  have  read  novels  with  the  most  fearful  contentment  of  mind. 


DE    FINIBUS  373 

Once,  on  the  Mississippi,  it  was  my  dearly  beloved  "Jacob  Faith- 
ful": once,  at  Frankfort  O.M.,  the  dclii!:htful  "  Vingt  Ans  Apres  " 
of  Monsieur  Dumas  :  once,  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  the  thrilling  "  Woman 
in  White  "  :  and  these  books  gave  me  anuisement  from  morning  till 
sunset.  I  remember  those  ague  fits  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure 
and  gratitude.  Think  of  a  whole  day  in  bed,  and  a  good  novel  for 
a  companion  !  No  cares  :  no  remorse  about  idleness  :  no  visitors  : 
and  the  Woman  in  White  or  the  Chevalier  d'Artagnan  to  tell  me 
stories  from  dawn  to  night !  "  Please,  ma'am,  my  master's  compli- 
ments, and  can  he  have  the  third  volume  ? "  (This  message  was 
sent  to  an  astonished  friend  and  neighbour  who  lent  me,  volume  by 
volume,  the  "  W.  in  W.")  How  do  you  like  your  novels  1  I  like 
mine  strong,  *'  hot  with,"  and  no  mistake  :  no  love-making  :  no 
observations  about  society  :  little  dialogue,  except  where  the  char- 
acters are  bullying  each  other :  plenty  of  fighting :  and  a  villain 
in  the  cupboard,  who  is  to  suffer  tortures  just  before  Finis.  I 
don't  like  your  melancholy  Finis.  I  never  read  the  history  of  a 
consumptive  heroine  twice.  If  I  might  give  a  short  hint  to  an 
impartial  writer  (as  the  Examiner  used  to  say  in  old  days),  it 
would  be  to  act,  7iot  k  la  mode  le  pays  de  Pole  (I  think  that  was 
the  phraseology),  but  ahvays  to  give  quarter.  In  the  story  of 
Philip,  just  come  to  an  end,  I  have  the  permission  of  the  author  to 
state  that  he  was  going  to  drown  the  two  villains  of  the  piece — a 

certain  Doctor  F and  a  certain  Mr.  T.  H on  board  the 

President,  or  some  other  tragic  ship — but  you  see  I  relented.  I 
pictured  to  myself  Firmin's  ghastly  face  amid  the  crowd  of  shudder- 
ing people  on  tliat  reeling  deck  in  the  lonely  ocean,  and  thought, 
"  Thou  ghastly  lying  wretch,  thou  shalt  not  be  drowned ;  thou 
shalt  have  a  fever  only ;  a  knowledge  of  thy  danger  ;  and  a  chance 
— ever  so  small  a  chance — of  repentance."  I  wonder  wliether  he 
did  repent  when  he  found  himself  in  the  yellow-fever,  in  Virginia  1 
The  probability  is,  he  fancied  that  liis  son  had  injured  him  very 
much,  and  forgave  him  on  his  death-bed.  Do  you  imagine  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  genuine  right-down  remorse  in  the  world  1  Don't 
people  rather  find  excuses  which  make  their  minds  easy  ;  endeavour 
to  i)rove  to  themselves  that  they  have  been  lamentably  belied  and 
misimderstood  ;  and  tiy  and  forgive  the  persecutors  who  vnll  present 
that  bill  when  it  is  due ;  and  not  bear  malice  against  the  cruel 
ruffian  who  takes  them  to  the  police-office  for  stealing  the  spoons'? 
Years  ago  I  had  a  quarrel  with  a  certain  well-known  person  (I 
believed  a  statement  regarding  him  Mdiich  his  friends  imparted  to 
me,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  quite  incorrect).  To  his  dying 
day  that  quarrel  was  never  quite  made  up.  I  said  to  Ids  brother, 
"  Why  is  your  brother's  soul  still  dark  against  ine  ?     It  is  I  who 


374  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

ouglit  to  be  angry  and  unforgiving  :  for  I  was  in  the  wrong."  In 
the  region  which  they  now  inhabit  (for  Finis  lias  been  set  to  the 
vobiines  of  the  lives  of  both  here  below),  if  they  take  any  cognisance 
of  our  squabbles,  and  tittle-tattles,  and  gossips  on  earth  here,  I 
hope  they  admit  that  my  little  error  was  not  of  a  nature  unpardon- 
able. If  you  have  never  committed  a  worse,  my  good  sir,  surely 
the  score  against  you  will  not  be  heavy.  Ha,  dileciiiisimi  fratres  ! 
It  is  in  regard  of  sins  not  found  out  that  we  may  say  or  sing  (in  an 
undertone,  in  a  most  penitent  and  lugubrious  minor  key),  "  Miserere 
nobis  miseris  peccatoribus." 

Among  the  sins  of  commission  which  novel-writers  not  seldom 
perpetrate,  is  the  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or  tall-talking,  against  which, 
for  my  part,  I  will  offer  up  a  special  libera  me.  This  is  the  sin  of 
schoolmasters,  governesses,  critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors  of 
young  or  old  people.  Nay  (for  I  am  making  a  clean  breast,  and 
liberating  my  soul),  perhaps  of  all  the  novel-spinners  now  extant, 
the  present  speaker  is  the  most  addicted  to  preaching.  Does  he 
not  stop  perpetually  in  his  story  and  begin  to  preach  to  you? 
When  he  ought  to  be  engaged  with  business,  is  he  not  for  ever 
taking  the  Muse  by  the  sleeve,  and  plaguing  her  with  some  of  his 
cynical  sermons  1  I  cry  peccavi  loudly  and  heartily.  I  tell  you  I 
would  like  to  be  able  to  write  a  story  which  should  show  no  egotism 
whatever — in  which  there  should  be  no  reflections,  no  cynicism,  no 
vulgarity  (and  so  forth),  but  an  incident  in  every  other  page,  a 
villain,  a  battle,  a  mystery  in  every  chapter.  I  should  like  to  he 
able  to  feed  a  reader  so  spicily  as  to  leave  him  hungering  and  thirst- 
ing for  more  at  the  end  of  every  monthly  meal. 

Alexandre  Dumas  describes  himself,  when  inventing  the  plan  of 
a  work,  as  lying  silent  on  his  back  for  two  wiiole  days  on  the  deck 
of  a  yacht  in  a  Mediterranean  port.  At  the  end  of  the  two  days 
he  arose  and  called  for  dinner.  In  those  two  days  he  had  built 
his  plot.  He  had  moulded  a  mighty  clay,  to  be  cast  presently  in 
perennial  brass.  The  chapters,  the  characters,  the  incidents,  the 
combinations  were  all  arranged  in  the  artist's  brain  ere  he  set  a 
pen  to  paper.  My  Pegasus  won't  fly,  so  as  to  let  me  survey  the 
field  below  me.  He  has  no  wings,  lue  is  blind  of  one  eye  certainly  ; 
he  is  restive,  stubborn,  slow  ;  crops  a  hedge  when  he  ought  to  be 
galloping,  or  gallops  when  he  ought  to  be  quiet.  He  never  will 
show  off  when  I  want  him.  Sometimes  he  goes  at  a  pace  which 
surprises  me.  Sometimes,  when  I  most  wish  him  to  make  the 
running,  the  brute  turns  restive,  and  I  am  obliged  to  let  him  take 
his  own  time.  I  wonder  do  other  novel-writers  experience  this 
fatalism  1  They  7nust  go  a  certain  way,  in  spite  of  themselves.  I 
have  been  surprised  at  tlie  observations  made  by  some  of  my  char- 


DE    FINIBUS  375 

acters.  It  seems  as  if  an  occult  Power  was  moving  the  pen.  The 
personage  does  or  says  something,  and  I  ask,  how  tlie  dickens  did 
he  come  to  think  of  that  ?  Every  man  has  ix-marked  in  dreams, 
the  vast  dramatic  power  which  is  sometimes  evinced  ;  I  won't  say 
the  surprising  power,  for  notliing  does  surprise  you  in  dreams.  But 
those  strange  characters  you  meet  make  instant  observations  of 
which  you  never  can  have  thought  previously.  In  like  manner,  the 
imagination  foretells  things.  We  spake  anon  of  the  inflated  style 
of  some  writers.  What  also  if  there  is  an  afflated  style, — when  a 
writer  is  like  a  Pythoness  on  her  oracle  tripod,  and  mighty  words, 
words  which  he  cannot  help,  come  blo^Wng,  and  bellowing,  and 
whistling,  and  moaning  through  the  speaking  i)ipes  of  his  bodily 
organ  1  I  have  told  you  it  was  a  very  queer  shock  to  me  the  other 
day  when,  with  a  letter  of  introduction  in  his  hand,  the  artist's  (not 
my)  Philip  Firmin  walked  into  this  room,  and  sat  down  in  the 
chair  opjjosite.  In  the  novel  of  "  Pendennis,"  written  ten  years 
ago,  there  is  an  account  of  a  certain  Costigan,  whom  I  had  invented 
(as  I  suppose  authors  invent  their  personages  out  of  scraps,  heel- 
taps, odds  and  ends  of  characters).  I  was  smoking  in  a  tavern 
parlour  one  night — and  this  Costigan  came  into  the  room  alive — 
the  very  man  : — the  most  remarkable  resemblance  of  the  printed 
sketches  of  the  man,  of  the  rude  drawings  in  which  I  had  depicted 
him.  He  had  the  same  little  coat,  the  same  bettered  hat,  cocked 
on  one  eye,  the  same  twinkle  in  that  eye.  "  Sir,"  said  I,  knowing 
him  to  be  an  old  friend  whom  I  had  met  in  unknown  regions,  "  sir," 
I  said,  "may  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water  *?  "  ^'^  Ikdad, 
ye  may"  says  he,  " and  I'll  sing  ye  a  song  tu."  Of  coiu'se  he 
spoke  with  an  Irish  brogue.  Of  course  he  had  been  in  the  army. 
In  ten  minutes  he  jndled  out  an  Army  Agent's  account,  Avhereon 
his  name  was  written.  A  few  months  after  we  read  of  him  in  a 
pohce-court.  How  had  I  come  to  know  him,  to  divine  him  1 
Nothing  shall  convince  me  that  I  have  not  seen  that  man  in  the 
AA'orld  of  spirits.  In  the  world  of  spirits  and  water  I  know  I  did  : 
but  that  is  a  mere  quibble  of  words.  I  w^as  not  surprised  when  he 
spoke  in  an  Irish  brogue.  I  had  had  cognisance  of  him  before  some- 
how. Who  has  not  felt  that  little  shock  which  arises  when  a 
person,  a  place,  some  words  in  a  book  (there  is  always  a  collocation) 
present  themselves  to  you,  and  you  know  that  you  have  before  met 
the  same  person,  words,  scene,  and  so  forth  1 

They  used  to  call  the  good  Sir  Walter  the  "Wizard  of  the 
North."  What  if  some  writer  should  appear  who  can  write  so 
enchayitingly  that  he  shall  be  able  to  call  into  actual  life  the 
people  whom  he  invents  ?  AVhat  if  Mignon,  and  Margaret,  and 
Goetz  von  Berlichingen  are  alive  now  (though  I  ilon't  say  they  are 


376  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

visible),  and  Dugald  Dalgetty  and  Ivanlioe  were  to  step  in  at  that 
open  window  by  the  little  garden  yonder?  Suppose  Uncas  and 
our  noble  old  Leather-stocking  were  to  glide  silently  in?  Suppose 
Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis  sliould  enter  with  a  noiseless  swagger, 
curling  their  moustaches'?  And  dearest  Amelia  Booth,  on  Uncle 
Toby's  arm  ;  and  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  with  his  hair  dyed  green ; 
and  all  the  Crummies  company  of  comedians,  with  the  Gil  Bias 
troop ;  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley ;  and  the  greatest  of  all  crazy 
gentlemen,  the  Knight  of  La  Mancha,  Avith  his  blessed  squire?  I 
say  to  you,  I  look  rather  wistfully  towards  the  Avindow,  musing 
upon  these  people.  Were  any  of  them  to  enter,  I  think  I  shouhl 
not  be  very  much  frightened.  Dear  old  friends,  what  pleasant 
hours  I  have  had  with  tliem  !  We  do  not  see  each  other  very 
often,  but  when  we  do,  we  are  ever  happy  to  meet.  I  had  a 
capital  half-hour  with  Jacob  Faithful  last  lught ;  when  the  last 
sheet  was  corrected,  when  "  Finis "  had  been  written,  and  the 
printer's  boy,  Avith  the  copy,  was  safe  in  Green  Arbour  Court. 

So  you  are  gone,  little  jirinter's  boy,  with  the  last  scratches  and 
corrections  on  the  proof,  and  a  fine  flourish  by  Avay  of  Finis  at  the 
story's  end.  The  last  corrections  1  I  say  those  last  corrections 
seem  never  to  be  finished.  A  i)lague  upon  the  weeds  !  Every 
day,  when  I  walk  in  my  own  little  literary  gar<len-plot,  I  spy  some, 
and  should  like  to  have  a  spud,  and  root  them  out.  Those  idle 
words,  neighbour,  are  past  remedy.  That  turning  back  to  the  old 
pages  produces  anything  but  elation  of  mind.  Would  you  not  pay  a 
pretty  fine  to  be  able  to  cancel  some  of  them  1  Oh,  the  sad  old 
pages,  the  dull  old  pages  !  Oh,  the  cares,  the  ennui,  the  squabbles, 
the  repetitions,  the  old  conversations  over  and  over  again  !  But 
now  and  again  a  kind  th<iught  is  recalled,  and  now  and  again 
a  dear  memory.  Yet  a  few  chapters  more,  and  then  the  last : 
after  which,  behold  Finis  itself  come  to  an  end,  and  the  Infinite 
begun. 


ON  A   PEAL   OF  BELLS 


AS  some  hells  in  a  ohuroli  hard  hy  are  making  a  great  holiday 
clanging  in  the  summer  afternoon,  I  am  reminded  somehow 
'■  of  a  July  day,  a  garden,  and  a  great  clanging  of  hells  years 
and  years  ago,  on  the  very  day  Avhen  George  IV.  was  crowned.  I 
rememher  a  little  hoy  lying  in  that  garden  reading  his  first  novel. 
It  was  called  tiie  "  Scottish  Chiefs."  The  little  boy  (who  is  now 
ancient  and  not  little)  read  this  book  in  the  summer-house  of  his 
great-grandmamma.  She  was  eighty  years  of  age  then.  A  most 
lovely  and  pi(!turesque  old  lady,  with  a  long  tortoiseshell  cane,  with 
a  little  puff,  or  fmir,  of  snow-white  (or  was  it  powdered  1)  hair 
under  her  cap,  with  tlic  prettiest  little  black-velvet  slippers  and 
high  heels  you  ever  saw.  She  had  a  grandson,  a  lieutenant  in  the 
navy ;  son  of  her  son,  a  captain  in  the  navy ;  grandson  of  her 
husband,  a  captain  in  the  navy.  She  lived  for  scores  and  scores 
of  years  in  a  dear  little  old  Hampshire  town  inhabited  by  the 
wives,  widows,  daughters  of  navy  captains,  admirals,  lieutenants. 
Dear  me !  Don't  I  remember  Mrs.  Duval,  widow  of  Admiral 
Duval ;  and  the  Miss  Dennets,  at  the  Great  House  at  the  other 
end  of  the  town,  Admiral  Dennet's  daughters ;  and  the  Miss 
Barrys,  the  late  Captain  Barry's  daughters ;  and  the  good  old 
Miss  Maskews,  Admiral  Maskews's  daughter ;  and  that  dear  little 
Miss  Norval,  and  the  kind  Miss  Bookers,  one  of  whom  married 
Captain,  now  Admiral,  Sir  Henry  Excellent,  K.C.B.  1  Far  far 
away  into  the  past  I  look  and  see  the  little  town  with  its  fi-iendly 
glimmer.  That  town  Avas  so  like  a  novel  of  Miss  Austen's  that 
I  wonder  was  she  born  and  bred  there  1  No,  we  should  have 
known,  and  the  good  old  ladies  would  have  pronounced  her  to  be 
a  little  idle  thing,  occupied  with  her  silly  books  and  neglecting 
her  housekeeping.  There  were  other  towns  in  England,  no  doubt, 
where  dwelt  the  widows  and  wives  of  other  navy  captains ;  where 
they  tattled,  loved  each  otlicr,  and  quarrelled  ;  talked  about  Betty 
the  maid,  and  her  fine  ribbons  indeed  !  took  their  dish  of  tea  at 
six,  played  at  (juadrille  every  night  till  ten,  when  there  was  a  little 
bit  of  supper,  after  Avhich  Betty  came  with  the  lanthorn ;  and  uext 


378  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

clay  came,  and  next,  and  next,  and  so  forth,  until  a  day  arrived 
when  the  lanthorn  was  out,  when  Betty  came  no  more :  all  that 
little  company  sank  to  rest  under  the  daisies,  whither  some  folks 
will  presently  follow  them.  How  did  they  live  to  be  so  old,  those 
good  people?  Moi  qui  vons  jmrle,  I  perfectly  recollect  old  Mr. 
Gilbert,  who  had  been  to  sea  with  Captain  Cook ;  and  Captain  Cook, 
as  you  justly  observe,  dear  Miss,  quoting  out  of  your  "  Man.gnall's 
Questions,"  was  murdered  by  the  natives  of  Owhyhee,  anno  1779. 
Ah  !  don't  you  remember  his  picture,  standing  on  the  seashore,  in 
tights  and  gaiters,  with  a  musket  in  his  hand,  pointing  to  his 
people  not  to  fire  from  the  boats,  whilst  a  great  tattooed  savage 
is  going  to  stab  him  in  the  back?  Don't  you  remember  those 
houris  dancing  before  him  and  the  other  officers  at  the  great 
Otaheite  ball?  Don't  you  know  that  Cook  was  at  the  siege  of 
Quebec,  with  the  glorious  Wolfe,  who  fought  under  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  whose  Royal  father  was  a  distinguished  officer  at 
Ramillies,  before  he  commanded  in  chief  at  Dettingeu  ?  Huzza ! 
Give  it  them,  my  lads  !  My  horse  is  down  !  Then  I  know  I 
shall  not  run  away.  Do  the  French  run?  then  I  die  content. 
Stop.  Wo  !  Quo  me  rapis  ?  My  Pegasus  is  galloping  off,  good- 
ness knows  where,  like  his  Majesty's  charger  at  Dettingen. 

How  do  these  rich  historical  and  personal  reminiscences  come 
out  of  the  subject  at  present  in  hand  ?  What  is  that  subject,  by 
the  Avay  ?  My  dear  friend,  if  you  look  at  the  last  essaykin  (though 
you  may  leave  it  alone,  and  I  shall  not  be  in  the  least  surprised  or 
offendecl),  if  you  look  at  the  last  paper,  where  the  writer  imagines 
Athos  and  Porthos,  Dalgetty  and  Ivanhoe,  Amelia  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  Don  Quixote  and  Sir  Roger,  walking  in  at  the 
garden-window,  you  will  at  once  perceive  that  Novels  and  their 
heroes  and  heroines  are  our  present  subject  of  discourse,  into  which 
we  will  presently  plunge.  Are  you  one  of  us,  dear  sir,  and  do  you 
love  novel-reading  ?  To  be  reminded  of  your  first  novel  will  surely 
be  a  pleasure  to  you.  Hush  !  I  never  read  quite  to  the  end  of  my 
first,  the  "Scottish  Chiefs."  I  couldn't.  I  peeped  in  an  alarmed 
furtive  manner  at  some  of  the  closing  pages.  Miss  Porter,  like  a 
kind  dear  tender-hearted  creature,  would  not  have  Wallace's  head 
chopped  off  at  the  end  of  Vol.  V.  She  made  him  die  in  prison,* 
and  if  I  remember  right  (protesting  I  have  not  read  the  book  for 
forty-two   or  three    years),    Robert   Bruce   made    a   speecli   to  his 

*  I  find,  on  reference  to  the  novel,  that  Sir  William  died  on  the  scaffold, 
not  in  prison.     His  last  words  were,  "  '  My  prayer  is  heard.     Life's  cord  is  cut 

hy   Heaven.      Helen  !    Helen  !     May   Heaven   preserve   my  country,   and ' 

lie  stopped.     He  fell.     And  with  that  mighty  shock  the  scaffold  shook  to  its 
foundation." 


ON    A    PEAL    OF    BELLS  379 

soldiers,  in  wliicli  he  said,  "  And  Bannockburn  shall  equal  Cambus- 
kenneth."  *  But  I  reijeat,  I  could  not  read  the  end  of  the  fifth 
volume  of  that  dear  delightful  book  for  crying.  Good  heavens  !  It 
was  as  sad,  as  sad  as  going  back  to  school. 

The  glorious  Scott  cycle  of  romances  came  to  me  some  four  or 
five  years  afterwards ;  and  I  think  boys  of  our  year  were  specially 
fortunate  in  coming  upon  those  delightful  books  at  that  special  time 
when  we  could  best  enjoy  them.  Oh,  that  sunshiny  bench  on  half- 
holidays,  with  Claverhouse  or  Ivanhoe  for  a  companion  !  I  have 
remarked  of  very  late  days  some  little  men  in  a  gi-eat  state  of 
delectation  over  the  romances  of  Captain  Mayne  Reid,  and  Gustave 
Aimard's  Prairie  and  Indian  Stories,  and  during  occasional  holiday 
visits,  lurking  off"  to  bed  witl:  the  volume  under  their  arms.  But 
are  those  Indians  and  warriors  so  terrible  as  our  Indians  and 
warriors  were  ?  (I  say,  are  they  1  Young  gentlemen,  mind,  I  do 
not  say  they  are  not.)  But,  as  an  oldster,  I  can  be  heartily  thank- 
ful  for  the  novels  of  the  1-10  Geo.  IV.,  let  us  say,  and  so  down- 
ward to  a  period  not  unremote.  Let  us  see ;  there  is,  first,  our 
dear  Scott.  Whom  do  I  love  in  the  works  of  that  dear  old  master  ? 
Amo — 

The  Baron  of  Bradwardine,  and  Fergus.  (Captain  Waverley  is 
certainly  very  mild.) 

Amo  Ivanhoe  ;  LOCKSLEY  ;  tlie  Templar. 

Amo  Quentin  Durward,  and  specially  Quentin's  uncle,  who 
brouglit  the  Boar  to  bay.     I  forget  the  gentleman's  name. 

I  have  never  cared  for  the  Master  of  Ravenswood,  or  fetched 
his  liat  out  of  the  water  since  he  dropped  it  there  wlien  I  last  met 
him  (circa  1825). 

Amo  Saladin  and  the  Scotch  knight  in  the  "  Talisman."  The 
Sultan  best. 

Amo  Claverhouse. 

Amo  Major  Dalgetty.  Delightful  Major.  To  think  of  him 
is  to  desire  to  jump  up,  run  to  the  book,  and  get  the  volume  down 

*  The  remark  of  Bruce  (which  I  i)rotest  I  had  not  read  for  forty-two  years), 
I  find  to  be  as  follows: — "When  this  was  uttered  by  the  English  heralds, 
Bruce  turned  to  Ruthven,  with  an  heroic  smile,  '  Let  him  come,  my  brave 
barons !  and  he  shall  find  that  Bannockburn  shall  page  with  Cambusken- 
neth!'"  In  the  same  amiable  author's  famous  novel  of  "  Thaddeus  of 
Warsaw,"  there  is  more  crying  than  in  any  novel  I  ever  remember  to  have 
read.  See,  for  example,  the  last  page: — "Incapable  of  speaking,  Thaddeus 
led  his  wife  back  to  her  carriage.  .  .  .  His  tears  gushed  out  in  spite  of  himself, 
and  mingling  with  hers,  poured  those  thanks,  those  assurances,  of  animated 
approbation  through  her  heart,  which  made  it  even  ache  with  excess  of 
happiness."  And  a  sentence  or  two  further:  "Kosciusko  did  bless  him,  and 
embalmed  the  benediction  with  a  shower  ot  tears." 


380  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

from  the  shelf.  About  all  those  heroes  of  Scott,  what  a  manly 
l)looin  there  is,  and  honourable  modesty  !  They  are  not  at  all  heroic. 
They  seem  to  blush  somehow  in  their  position  of  hero,  and  as  it 
were  to  say,  "  Since  it  must  bo  done,  here  goes  ! "  They  are  hand- 
some, modest,  upright,  simple,  courageous,  not  too  clever.  If  I 
were  a  mother  (which  is  absurd),  I  should  like  to  be  mother-in-law 
to  several  young  men  of  the  Walter-Scott-hero  sort. 

Much  as  I  like  those  most  unassuming,  manly,  impretend- 
ing  gentlemen,  I  have  to  own  that  I  think  the  heroes  of  another 
writer,  viz.  : — 

Leather-stocking, 
Uncas, 
Haedheart, 
Tom  Coffin, 
are  quite  the  equals  of  Scott's  men ;  perhaps  Leather-stocking  is 
better  than  any  one  in  "  Scott's  lot."    La  Longue  Carabine  is  one 
of  the  great  prize-men  of  fiction.     He  ranks  with  your  Uncle  Toby, 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,   Falstaft' — heroic  figures,  all — American  or 
British,  and  the  artist  has  deserved  well  of  his  country  who  devised 
tliem. 

At  school,  in  my  time,  there  was  a  public  day,  when  the  boys' 
relatives,  an  examining  bigwig  or"  two  from  the  Universities,  old 
schoolfellows,  and  so  forth,  came  to  the  place.  The  boys  were  all 
paraded ;  prizes  were  administered ;  each  lad  being  in  a  new  suit  of 
clothes — and  magnificent  dandies,  I  promise  you,  some  of  us  were. 
Oh,  the  chubby  cheeks,  clean  collars,  glossy  new  raiment,  beaming 
faces,  glorious  in  youth — fit  tueri  caelum — bright  with  truth,  and 
mirth,  and  honour  !  To  see  a  hundred  boys  marshalled  in  a  chapel 
or  old  hall  !  to  hear  their  sweet  fresh  voices  when  they  chant,  and 
look  in  their  brave  calm  faces :  I  say,  does  not  the  sight  and  sound 
of  them  smite  you,  somehow,  with  a  pang  of  exquisite  kindness? 
.  .  .  Well.  As  about  boys,  so  about  Novelists.  I  fancy  the  boys 
of  Parnassus  School  all  paraded.  I  am  a  lower  boy  myself  in  that 
a(!ademy.  I  like  our  fellows  to  look  well,  upright,  gentlemanlike. 
There  is  Master  Fielding — he  with  the  black  eye.  What  a  magnifi- 
(;ent  build  of  a  boy  !  There  is  Master  Scott,  one  of  the  heads 
of  the  school.  Did  you  ever  see  a  fellow  more  hearty  and  manly  ? 
Yonder  lean,  sliambling,  cadaverous  lad,  who  is  always  borrowing 
money,  telling  lies,  leering  after  the  housemaids,  is  Master  Laurence 
Sterne — a  bishop's  grandson,  and  himself  intended  for  the  Church : 
for  shame,  you  little  reprobate  !  But  what  a  genius  the  fellow  has  ! 
Let  him  have  a  sound  flogging,  and  as  soon  as  the  young  scamp  is 
out  of  the  whipping-room  give  him  a  gold  medal.  Such  would  be 
my  practice  if  I  were  Doctor  Birch,  and  master  of  the  school. 


ON    A    PEAL    OF    BELLS  381 

Let  us  drop  this  school  metaphor,  this  birch  and  all  pertaining 
thereto.  Our  subject,  I  beg  leave  to  remind  the  reader's  humble 
servant,  is  novel  heroes  and  heroines.  How  do  you  like  your  heroes, 
ladies  1  Gentlemen,  wliat  novel  heroines  do  you  prefer  ?  When  I 
set  this  essay  going,  I  sent  the  above  question  to  two  of  the  most 
inveterate  novel-readers  of  my  acquaintance.  The  gentleman  refers 
me  to  Miss  Austen ;  the  lady  says  Athos,  Guy  Livingstone,  and 
(pardon  my  rosy  blushes)  Colonel  Esmond,  and  owns  that  in  youth 
she  was  very  much  in  love  with  Valancourt. 

"  Valancourt  ?  and  who  was  he  1 "  cry  the  young  people. 
Valancourt,  my  dears,  was  the  hero  of  one  of  the  most  famous 
romances  which  ever  was  published  in  tliis  country.  The  beauty 
and  elegance  of  Valancourt  made  your  young  grandmammas'  gentle 
hearts  to  beat  with  respectful  sympathy.  He  and  his  glory  have 
passed  away.  Ah,  woe  is  me,  that  the  glory  of  novels  should  ever 
decay ;  that  dust  should  gather  round  them  on  the  shelves ;  that 
the  annual  cheques  from  Messieurs  the  publishers  should  dwindle, 
dwindle  !  Inquire  at  Mudie's,  or  the  London  Library,  who  asks  for 
the  "  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  "  now  1  Have  not  even  the  "  Mysteries 
of  Paris  "  ceased  to  frighten  ?  Alas,  our  novels  are  but  for  a  season  ; 
and  I  know  characters  whom  a  painful  modesty  forbids  me  to  mention, 
who  shall  go  to  limbo  along  with  "Valancourt"  and  "Doricourt" 
and  "  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw." 

A  dear  old  sentimental  friend,  with  whom  I  discoursed  on  the 
subject  of  novels  yesterday,  said  that  her  favourite  hero  was  Lord 
Orville,  in  "Evelina,"  that  novel  which  Doctor  Johnson  loved  so. 
I  took  down  the  book  from  a  dusty  old  crypt  at  a  club,  where  Mrs. 
Barbauld's  novelists  repose :  and  this  is  the  kind  of  thing,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  in  which  your  ancestors  found  pleasure  i — 

"  And  here,  whilst  I  was  looking  for  the  books,  I  was  followed 
by  Lord  Orville.  He  shut  the  door  after  he  came  in,  and,  approach- 
ing me  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  said.,  '  Is  this  true,  Miss  Anville — 
are  you  going  ? ' 

"  '  I  believe  so,  my  Lord,'  said  I,  still  looking  for  the  books. 

"  '  So  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly  :  must  I  lose  you  1 ' 

"  'No  great  loss,  my  Lord,'  said  I,  endeavouring  to  speak  cheer- 
fully. 

"  '  Is  it  possible,'  said  he  gravely,  '  Miss  Anville  can  doubt  my 
sincerity  1 ' 

"'I  can't  imagine,'  cried  I,  'what  Mrs.  Selwyn  lias  done  witli 
those  books.* 

"  'Would  to  Heaven,'  continued  he,  '  I  miglit  flatter  myself  you 
would  allow  me  to  prove  it ! ' 


382  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"  '  I  must  run  upstairs,'  cried  I,  greatly  confused,  *  and  ask 
what  she  lias  done  with  them.' 

"'You  are  going  then,'  cried  lie,  taking  my  hand,  'and  you 
give  me  not  the  smallest  hope  of  any  return  !  Will  you  not,  my 
too  lovely  friend,  will  you  not  teach  me,  with  fortitude  like  your 
own,  to  supi^ort  your  absence  ? ' 

" '  My  Lord,'  cried  I,  endeavouring  to  disengage  my  hand, 
'  pray  let  me  go  ! ' 

" '  I  will,'  cried  he  to  my  inexpressible  confusion,  dropping  on 
one  knee,  '  if  you  wish  me  to  leave  you.' 

" '  Oh,  my  Lord,'  exclaimed  I,  '  rise,  I  beseech  you ;  rise. 
Surely  your  Lordship  is  not  so  cruel  as  to  mock  me.' 

"  '  Mock  you  ! '  repeated  he  earnestly ;  '  no,  I  revere  you.  I 
esteem  and  admire  you  above  all  human  beings !  You  are  the 
friend  to  whom  my  soul  is  attached,  as  to  its  better  half.  You  are 
the  most  amiable,  the  most  perfect  of  women ;  and  you  are  dearer 
to  me  than  language  has  the  power  of  telling.' 

"  I  attempt  not  to  descrilje  my  sensations  at  that  moment ;  I 
scarce  breathed ;  I  doubted  if  I  existed ;  the  blood  forsook  my 
cheeks,  and  my  feet  refused  to  sustain  me.  Lord  Orville  hastily 
rising  sujjported  me  to  a  chair  upon  wliicli  I  sank  almost  lifeless. 

"  I  cannot  write  the  scene  that  followed,  tliough  every  word  is 
engraven  on  my  heart ;  but  his  protestations,  his  expressions,  were 
too  flattering  for  repetition ;  nor  would  he,  in  spite  of  my  repeated 
efforts  to  leave  him,  suffer  me  to  escape ;  in  short,  my  dear  sir,  I 
was  not  proof  against  his  solicitations,  and  he  drew  from  me  the 
most  sacred  secret  of  my  heart !  "  * 

*  Contrast  this  old  perfumed,  powdered  D'Arblay  conversation  with  the 
present  modern  talk.  If  the  two  young  people  wished  to  hide  their  emotions 
nowadays,  and  express  themselves  in  modest  language,  the  story  would  run  : — 

"Whilst  I  was  looking  for  the  books.  Lord  Orville  came  in.  He  looked 
uncommonly  down  in  the  mouth,  as  he  said  :  '  Is  this  true,  Miss  Anville  ;  are 
you  going  to  cut  ?  ' 

"  '  To  absquatulate,  Lord  Orville,'  said  I,  still  pretending  that  I  was  looking 
for  the  books. 

"  'You're  very  quick  about  it,'  said  he. 

"  '  Guess  it's  no  great  loss,'  I  remarked,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could. 

"  '  You  don't  think  I'm  chaffing  ?'  said  Orville,  with  much  emotion. 

"  '  What  has  Mrs.  Selwyn  done  with  the  books  ?'  I  went  on. 

"  '  What,  going  ? '  said  he,  '  and  going  for  good  ?  I  wish  I  was  such  a  good- 
plucked  one  as  you.  Miss  Anville,'  "  &c. 

The  conversation,  you  perceive,  might  be  easily  written  down  to  this  key; 
jmd  if  the  hero  and  heroine  were  niodern.  they  would  not  be  suffered  to  go 
til  rough  their  dialogue  on  stilts,  but  would  converse  in  the  natural  graceful 
way  at  present  customary.  By  the  way,  what  a  strange  custom  that  is  in 
rnodern  lady  novelists  to  make  the  men  bully  the  women  1    In  the  time  of 


ON    A    PEAL   OF    BELLS  383 

Other  people  may  not  mudi  like  this  extract,  madam,  from 
your  favourite  novel,  l)ut  when  you  come  to  read  it,  you  will  like 
it.  I  suspect  that  when  you  read  that  book  which  you  so  love, 
you  read  it  a  dexix.  Did  you  not  yourself  jtass  a  winter  at  Bath, 
when  you  w^ere  the  belle  of  the  assembly  %  Was  there  not  a  Lord 
Orville  in  your  case  too  %  As  you  think  of  him  eleven  lustres  pass 
away.  You  look  at  him  with  the  bright  eyes  of  those  days,  and 
your  hero  stands  before  you,  the  brave,  the  accomplished,  the 
simple,  the  true  gentleman ;  and  he  makes  the  most  elegant  of 
bows  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  young  women  the  world  ever 
saw ;  and  he  leads  you  out  to  the  cotillon,  to  the  dear  un forgotten 
music.  Hark  to  the  horns  of  Eltland,  blowing,  blowing !  ,  Bonne 
vieiUe,  you  remember  their  melody,  and  your  heartstrings  thrill 
with  it  still. 

Of  your  heroic  heroes,  I  think  our  friend  Monseigneur  Athos, 
Count  de  la  Ft^re,  is  my  favourite.  I  have  read  about  him  from 
sunrise  to  sunset  witli  the  utmost  contentment  of  mind.  He  has 
passed  through  how  many  volumes  1  Forty  1  Fifty  %  I  wish  for 
ray  part  there  were  a  hundred  more,  and  would  never  tire  of  him 
rescuing  prisoners,  punishing  ruffians,  and  running  scoundrels  through 
the  midriff  with  his  most  graceful  rajiier.  Ah,  Athos,  Porthos,  and 
Aramis,  you  are  a  magnificent  trio.  I  think  I  like  D'Artagnan  in 
his  own  Memoirs  l)est.  I  bought  him  years  and  years  ago,  price 
fivepence,  in  a  little  parchment-covered  Cologne-printed  volume,  at 
a  stall  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane.  Dumas  glorifies  him,  and  makes  a 
Marshal  of  him  ;  if  I  remember  rightly,  the  original  D'Artagnan 
was  a  needy  adventurer,  who  died  in  exile  very  early  in  Louis  XIV. 's 
reign.  Did  you  ever  read  the  "  Chevalier  d'Harmenthal '' "?  Did 
you  ever  read  the  "Tulipe  Noire,"  as  modest  as  a  story  by  Miss 
Edgeworth  1  I  think  of  the  prodigal  banquets  to  which  this 
LucuUus  of  a  man  has  invited  me,  with  thanks  and  wonder.  To 
what  a  series  of  splendid  entertainments  he  has  treated  me ! 
Where  does  he  find  the  money  for  these  prodigious  feasts?  They 
say  that  all  the  works  bearing  Dumas's  name  are  not  written  by 
him.  Wein  Does  not  the  chief  cook  have  aides  under  him'? 
Did  not  Rubens's  jjupils  paint  on  his  canvases'?  Had  not  Lawrence 
assistants  for  his  backgrounds '?  For  myself,  being  also  du  Quetier, 
I  confess  I  would  often  like  to  have  a  comjtetent,  respectable,  and 
rapid  clerk  for  the  business  jiart  of  my  novels ;  and  on  his  arrival, 

Miss  Porter  and  Madnrnc  D'Arblay,  we  have  respect,  profound  bows  and 
curtseys,  graceful  courtesy,  from  men  to  women.  In  the  time  of  Miss  Bronte, 
absolute  rudeness.  Is  it  true,  niesdames,  that  you  like  rudeness,  and  are 
pleased  at  being  ill-used  by  men  ?  I  could  point  to  more  than  one  lady 
novelist  who  so  represents  you. 


384  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

at  eleven  o'clock,  would  say,  "Mr.  Jones,  if  you  please,  the  Arch- 
bishop must  die  this  morning  in  about  five  pages.  Turn  to  article 
'  Dropsy '  (or  what  you  will)  in  Encyclopaedia.  Take  care  there 
are  no  medical  blunders  in  liis  death.  Group  his  daughters,  physi- 
cians, and  chaplains  round  him.  In  Wales's  '  London,'  letter  B, 
third  shelf,  you  will  find  an  account  of  Lamljeth,  and  some  prints 
of  the  place.  Colour  in  with  local  colouring.  The  daughter  will 
come  down,  and  speak  to  her  lover  in  his  wherry  at  Lambeth 
Stairs,"  &c.  &c.  Jones  (an  intelligent  young  man)  examines  the 
medical,  historical,  topographical  books  necessary ;  his  chief  points 
out  to  him  in  Jeremy  Taylor  (fob,  London,  m.dclv.)  a  few  re- 
marks, such  as  might  befit  a  dear  old  archbishop  departing  this  life. 
When  I  come  back  to  dress  for  dinner,  the  Archbishop  is  dead  on 
my  table  in  five  pages ;  medicine,  topography,  tlieology,  all  right ; 
and  Jones  lias  gone  home  to  his  family  some  hours.  Sir  Christopher 
is  the  architect  of  St.  Paul's.  He  has  not  laid  the  stones  or 
carried  up  tlie  mortar.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  carpenter's  and 
joiner's  work  in  novels  which  surely  a  smart  professional  hand 
might  supply.  A  smart  professional  hand !  I  give  you  my  word, 
there  seem  to  me  i^arts  of  novels — let  us  say  the  love-making,  the 
"  business,"  the  villain  in  the  cupboard,  and  so  forth,  which  I 
should  like  to  order  John  Footman  to  take  in  hand,  as  I  desire 
him  to  bring  the  coals  and  polish  the  boots.  Ask  me  indeed  to 
pop  a  robber  under  a  bed ;  to  hide  a  will  which  shall  be  forth- 
coming in  due  season ;  or  at  my  time  of  life  to  write  a  namby- 
pamby  love  conversation  between  Emily  and  Lord  Arthur !  I  feel 
ashamed  of  myself,  and  especially  when  my  business  obliges  me  to 
do  the  love-passages,  I  blush  so,  though  quite  alone  in  my  study, 
that  you  would  fancy  I  was  going  off  in  an  apoplexy.  Are  authors 
aff"ected  by  their  own  works  ?  I  don't  know  about  other  gentle- 
men, but  if  I  make  a  joke  myself,  I  cry ;  if  I  write  a  pathetic 
scene,  I  am  laughing  wildly  all  the  time — at  least  Tomkins  thinks 
so.     You  know  I  am  such  a  cynic ! 

The  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  (no  soft  and  yielding 
character  like  his  predecessor,  but  a  man  of  stern  resolution)  will 
oidy  allow  these  harmless  papers  to  run  to  a  certain  length.  But 
for  this  veto  I  should  gladly  have  prattled  over  half  a  sheet  more, 
and  have  discoursed  on  many  heroes  and  heroines  of  novels  whom 
fond  memory  brings  back  to  me.  Of  these  books  I  have  been  a 
diligent  student  from  those  early  days,  which  are  recorded  at  the 
commencement  of  this  little  essay.  Oh,  delightful  novels,  well 
remembered !  Oh,  novels  sweet  and  delicious  as  the  raspberry 
open-tarts  of  budding  boyhood !  Do  I  forget  one  night  after 
prayers  (when  we  under-boys  were  sent  to  bed)  lingering  at  my 


ON    A    PEAL    OF    BELLS  385 

cupboard  to  read  one  little  half-i)age  more  of  my  deai"  Walter 
Scott — and  down  came  the  monitor's  dictionary  upon  my  head  ! 
Rebecca,  daughter  of  Isaac  of  York,  I  have  loved  thee  faithfully 
for  forty  years !  Thou  wert  twenty  years  old  (say)  and  I  but 
twelve,  when  I  knew  thee.  At  sixty  odd,  love,  most  of  the 
ladies  of  thy  Orient  race  have  lost  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  bulged 
beyond  the  line  of  beauty ;  but  to  me  tho"  art  ever  young  and 
fair,  and  I  will  do  battle  with  any  felon  Templar  who  assails 
thy  fair  name. 


OIT  A   PEAR-TREE 


A  GRACIOUS  reader  no  doubt  has  remarked  that  these  humble 
sermons  have  for  subjects  some  little  event  which  happens 
at  the  preacher's  own  gate,  or  whicli  falls  under  his  peculiar 
cognisance.  Once,  you  may  remember,  we  discoursed  about  a 
chalk-mark  on  tlie  door.  This  morning  Betsy,  the  housemaid, 
conies  with  a  frightened  look,  and  says,  "  Law,  mum  !  there's  three 
bricks  taken  out  of  the  garden  wall,  and  the  branches  broke,  and 
all  the  pears  taken  off  tlie  pear-tree  !  "  Poor  peaceful  suburban 
pear-tree  !  Gaol-birds  have  hopped  about  thy  branches,  and  robbed 
them  of  their  smoky  fruit.  But  those  bricks  removed  ;  that  ladder 
evidently  prepared,  by  which  unknown  marauders  may  enter  and 
depart  from  my  little  Englishman's  castle ;  is  not  this  a  subject 
of  thrilling  interest,  and  may  it  not  lie  continued  in  a  future 
number? — -that  is  the  terrible  question.  Suppose,  having  escaladed 
the  outer  wall,  the  miscreants  take  a  fancy  to  storm  tlie  castle "? 
Well — well  !  we  are  armed ;  we  are  numerous ;  we  are  men  of 
tremendous  courage,  who  will  defend  our  spoons  with  our  lives ; 
and  there  are  barracks  close  by  (thank  goodness  !)  whence,  at  the 
noise  of  our  shouts  and  firing,  at  least  a  thousand  bayonets  will 
bristle  to  our  rescue. 

What  sound  is  yonder  1  A  church  bell.  I  might  go  myself, 
but  how  listen  to  the  sermon  1  I  am  thinking  of  those  thieves  who 
have  made  a  ladder  of  my  wall,  and  a  prey  of  my  pear-tree.  They 
may  be  walking  to  church,  at  this  moment,  neatly  shaved,  in  clean 
linen,  with  every  outward  appearance  of  virtue.  If  I  went,  I  know 
I  should  be  watching  the  congregation,  and  thinking,  "  Is  that  one 
of  the  fellows  who  came  over  my  wall  1 "  If,  after  the  reading  of 
the  eighth  commandment,  a  man  sang  out  with  ])articular  energy, 
"  Incline  our  hearts  to  keep  tliis  law,"  I  should  think,  "  Aha, 
Master  Basso,  did  you  have  pears  for  breakfast  this  morning  1 " 
Crime  is  walking  round  me,  that  is  clear.  Who  is  the  perpetrator? 
.  .  .  What  a  changed  asjiect  the  world  has,  since  these  last  few 
lines  were  written  !  I  have  been  walking  round  about  my  premises, 
and  in  consultation  with  a  gentleman  in  a  single-breasted  blue  coat, 


ON    A    PEAR-TREE  387 

with  pewter  buttons,  and  a  tape  ornament  on  the  collar.  He  has 
looked  at  the  holes  in  the  wall,  and  the  amputated  tree.  We 
have  formed  our  plan  of  defence — -^jerAo/JS  0/  attack.  Perhaps 
some  day  you  may  read  in  the  papers,  "Daring  Attempt  at 
Burglary — Heroic  Victory  over  the  Villains,"  e^c.  &c. 
Rascals  as  yet  unknown !  perhaps  you,  too,  may  read  these  words, 
and  may  be  induced  to  pause  in  your  fatal  intention.  Take  the 
advice  of  a  sincere  friend,  and  keep  off.  To  find  a  man  writliing 
in  my  man-trap,  another  mayhap  impaled  in  my  ditch,  to  pick  off 
another  from  my  tree  (scoundrel !  as  though  he  were  a  pear)  will 
give  me  no  pleasure ;  but  such  things  may  happen.  Be  warned  in 
time,  villains  !  Or,  if  you  imtst  pursue  your  calling  as  cracksmen, 
have  the  goodness  to  try  some  other  shutters.  Enough  !  subside 
into  your  darkness,  children  of  night !  Thieves  !  we  seek  not  to 
have  you  hanged — you  are  but  as  pegs  whereon  to  hang  others. 

I  may  have  said  before,  that  if  I  were  going  to  be  hanged  my- 
self, I  think  I  should  take  an  accurate  note  of  my  sensations,  request 
to  stop  at  some  public-house  on  the  road  to  Tyburn,  and  be  providefl 
with  a  private  room  and  writing-materials,  and  give  an  account  of 
my  state  of  mind.  Then,  gee  up,  carter !  I  beg  your  reverence  to 
continue  your  apposite,  though  not  novel  remarks  on  my  situation  ; 
— and  so  we  drive  uji  to  Tyburn  turn])ike,  where  an  expectant 
crowd,  the  obliging  sheriffs,  and  the  dexterous  and  rapid  Mr.  Ketcli 
are  already  in  waiting. 

A  number  of  labouring  people  are  sauntering  about  the  streets 
and  taking  their  rest  on  this  holiday — fellows  who  have  no  more 
stolen  my  pears  than  they  have  robbed  the  Crown  jewels  out  of 
tlie  Tower — and  I  say  I  cannot  help  thinking  in  my  own  mind, 
"Are  you  the  rascal  who  got  over  my  wall  last  night  1"  Is  the 
suspicion  haunting  my  mind  written  on  my  countenance  ?  I  trust 
not.  What  if  one  man  after  another  were  to  come  up  to  me  and 
say,  "  How  dare  you,  sir,  suspect  me  in  your  mind  of  stealing 
your  fruit  ?  Go  be  hanged,  you  and  your  jargonels  !  "  You  rascal 
thief!  it  is  not  merely  three-halfp'orth  of  sooty  fruit  you  rob  me 
of,  it  is  my  peace  of  mind — my  artless  innocence  and  trust  in  my 
fellow-creatures,  my  childlike  belief  that  everything  they  say  is 
true.  How  can  I  hold  out  the  hand  of  friendship  in  this  condition, 
when  my  first  impression  is,  "  My  good  sir,  I  strongly  suspect  that 
you  were  up  my  pear-tree  last  night "  1  It  is  a  dreadful  state  of 
mind.  The  core  is  black  ;  the  death-stricken  fruit  drops  on  the 
bough,  and  a  great  worm  is  within — fattening,  and  feasting,  and 
wriggling  !  Who  stole  the  })ears  1  I  say.  Is  it  you,  brother  1  Is 
it  you,  madam  ?  Come  !  are  you  ready  to  answer — respondere 
parati  et  cantare  pares  1     (0  shame  !  shame  !) 


388  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"Will  the  villains  ever  be  discovered  and  punished  who  stole  my 
fruit  ?  Some  unlucky  rascals  who  rob  orchards  are  caught  up  the 
tree  at  once.  Some  rob  through  life  with  impunity.  If  I,  for  my 
part,  were  to  try  and  get  up  the  smallest  tree,  on  the  darkest  night, 
in  the  most  remote  orchard,  I  wager  any  money  I  should  be  found 
out — be  caught  by  the  leg  in  a  man-trap,  or  liave  Towler  fastening 
on  me.  I  always  am  found  out ;  have  been ;  shall  be.  It's  my 
luck.  Other  men  will  carry  off  bushels  of  fruit,  and  get  away 
undetected,  unsuspected ;  whereas  I  know  woe  and  punishment 
would  fall  upon  me  were  I  to  lay  my  hand  on  the  smallest  pippin. 
So  be  it.  A  man  who  has  this  precious  self-knowledge  will  surely 
keep  his  hands  from  picking  and  stealing,  and  his  feet  upon  the 
paths  of  virtue. 

I  will  assume,  my  benevolent  friend  and  present  reader,  that 
you  yourself  are  virtuous,  not  from  a  fear  of  punishment,  but  from 
a  sheer  love  of  good ;  but  as  you  and  I  walk  through  life,  consider 
wliat  hundreds  of  thousands  of  rascals  we  must  have  met,  who  have 
not  been  found  out  at  all.  In  high  places  and  low,  in  Clubs  and 
on  'Cliange,  at  church  or  the  balls  and  routs  of  tlie  nobility  and 
gentry,  how  dreadful  it  is  for  benevolent  beings  like  you  and  me 
to  have  to  think  these  undiscovered  though  not  unsuspected 
scoimdrels  are  swarming !  What  is  the  difference  between  you 
and  a  galley-slave  ?  Is  yonder  poor  wretch  at  the  hulks  not  a 
man  and  a  brother  too  ?  Have  you  ever  forged,  my  dear  sir  1 
Have  you  ever  cheated  your  neighbour?  Have  you  ever  ridden 
to  Hounslow  Heath  and  robbed  tlie  mail?  Have  you  ever  entered 
a  first-class  railway  carriage,  where  an  old  gentleman  sat  alone  in 
a  sweet  sleep,  daintily  murdered  him,  taken  liis  pocket-book,  and 
got  out  at  the  next  station  1  You  know  that  tliis  circumstance 
occurred  in  France  a  few  months  since.  If  we  have  travelled  in 
France'  this  autunui  we  may  have  met  the  ingenious  gentleman  who 
perpetrated  this  daring  and  successful  couj).  AVe  may  have  found 
him  a  well-informed  and  agreeable  man.  I  have  been  acquainted 
with  two  or  three  gentlemen  wlio  have  been  discovered  after — 
after  the  performance  of  illegal  actions.  What  1  That  agreeable 
rattling  fellow  we  met  was  the  celebrated  Mr.  John  Sheppard  ? 
Was  that  amiable  quiet  gentleman  in  spectacles  the  well-known 
Mr.  Fauntleroy  1  In  Hazlitt's  admirable  paper,  "  Going  to  a 
Fight,"  he  describes  a  dashing  sporting  fellow  who  was  in  the  coach, 
and  who  was  no  less  a  man  than  the  eminent  destroyer  of  Mr. 
William  Weare.  Don't  tell  me  that  you  would  not  like  to  have 
met  (out  of  business)  Captain  Sheppard,  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Dodd,  or  others  rendered  famous  by  their  actions  and  misfortunes, 
by  their  lives  and  their  deaths.    They  are  the  subjects  of  ballads,  the 


ON    A    PEAR-TREE  389 

heroes  of  romance.  A  friend  of  mine  had  tlie  house  in  Mayfair, 
out  of  which  poor  Doctor  Dodd  was  taken  handcuffed.  There  was 
the  paved  hall  over  which  he  stepped.  That  little  room  at  the 
side  was,  no  doubt,  the  study  where  he  composed  his  elegant 
sermons.  Two  years  since  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  partake  of 
some  admirable  dinners  in  Tyburnia — magnificent  dinners  indeed ; 
but  rendered  doubly  interesting  from  the  foct  that  the  house  was 
that  occupied  by  the  late  Mr.  Sadleir.  One  night  the  late  Mr. 
Sadleir  took  tea  in  that  dining-room,  and,  to  the  surprise  of  his 
butler,  went  out,  having  jtut  into  his  pocket  his  own  cream-jug. 
The  next  morning,  you  know,  he  was  found  dead  on  Hampstead 
Heath,  with  the  cream-jug  lying  by  him,  into  which  he  had  poured 
the  poison  by  which  he  died.  The  idea  of  the  ghost  of  the  late 
gentleman  flitting  about  the  room  gave  a  strange  interest  to  the 
banquet.  Can  you  fancy  him  taking  his  tea  alone  in  the  dining- 
room?  He  empties  that  cream-jug  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket;  and 
then  he  opens  yonder  door,  tlirougli  winch  he  is  never  to  pass  again. 
Now  he  crosses  the  hall :  and  hark  !  the  hall  door  shuts  upon  him, 
and  his  steps  die  away.  They  are  gone  into  the  night.  They 
traverse  the  sleeping  city.  They  lead  him  into  the  fields,  where 
the  grey  morning  is  beginning  to  glimmer.  He  ])ours  something 
from  a  bottle  into  a  little  silver  jug.  It  touches  his  lips,  the 
lying  lips.  Do  they  quiver  a  pi'ayer  ere  that  awful  draught  is 
swallowed  1     When  the  sun  rises  tliey  are  dumb. 

I  neither  knew  this  unhappy  mpn  nor  his  countryman — Laertes 
let  us  call  him — who  is  at  present  in  exile,  having  been  compelled 
to  fly  from  remorseless  creditors.  Laertes  fled  to  America,  where 
he  earned  his  bread  by  his  pen.  I  own  to  having  a  kindly  feeling 
towards  this  scapegrace,  because,  though  an  exile,  he  did  not  abuse 
the  country  whence  he  fled.  I  have  heai'd  that  lie  went  away 
taking  no  spoil  with  him,  penniless  almost ;  and  on  his  voyage  he 
made  acquaintance  with  a  certain  Jew  ;  and  when  he  fell  sick,  at 
New  York,  this  Jew  befriended  him,  and  gave  him  help  and  money 
out  of  his  own  store,  which  was  but  small.  Noav,  after  they  had 
been  awhile  in  the  strange  city,  it  happened  that  the  poor  Jew 
spent  all  his  little  money,  and  he  too  fell  ill,  and  was  in  great 
penury.  And  now  it  was  Laertes  who  befriended  that  Ebrew 
Jew.  He  fee'd  doctors ;  he  fed  and  tended  the  sick  and  hungry. 
Go  to,  Laertes  !  I  know  thee  not.  It  may  be  thou  art  justly 
ex%il  2'>atrifp.  But  the  Jew  shall  intercede  for  thee,  thou  not,  let 
us  trust,  hopeless  Christian  sinner. 

Another  exile  to  the  same  shore  I  knew  :  who  did  not?  Julius 
Caisar  hardly  owed  more  money  tlian  Cucedicus :  and,  gracious 
powers  !   Cucedicus,   how  did  you  manage  to  spend  and  owe  so 


390  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

much  ?  All  (lay  he  was  at  work  for  his  clients ;  at  night  he  was 
occupied  in  the  Public  Council.  He  had  neither  wife  nor  children. 
The  rewards  which  he  received  for  his  orations  were  enough  to 
maintain  twenty  rhetoricians.  Night  after  night  I  have  seen  him 
eating  his  frugal  meal,  consisting  but  of  a  fish,  a  small  portion  of 
mutton,  and  a  small  measure  of  Iberian  or  Trinacrian  wine,  largely 
diluted  with  the  sparkling  waters  of  Rhenish  Gaul.  And  this  was 
all  he  had ;  and  this  man  earned  and  paid  away  talents  upon 
talents  ;  and  fled,  owing  who  knows  how  many  more  1  Does  a  man 
earn  fifteen  tliousand  pounds  a  year,  toiling  by  day,  talking  by  night, 
having  horrible  unrest  in  his  bed,  ghastly  terrors  at  waking,  seeing 
an  officer  lurking  at  every  corner,  a  sword  of  justice  for  ever  hanging 
over  his  head — and  have  for  his  sole  diversion  a  newspaper,  a  lonely 
mutton-chop,  and  a  little  sherry  and  seltzer-water  1  In  the  German 
stories  we  read  how  men  sell  themselves  to — a  certain  Personage, 
and  that  Personage  cheats  them.  He  gives  them  wealth ;  yes,  but 
the  gold-pieces  turn  into  worthless  leaves.  He  sets  them  before 
splendid  banquets  :  yes,  but  what  an  awful  grin  that  black  footman 
has  who  lifts  up  the  dish-cover ;  and  don't  you  smell  a  peculiar 
sidphurous  odour  in  the  dish  1  Faugh  !  take  it  away  ;  I  can't  eat. 
He  promises  them  splendours  and  triumphs.  The  conqueror's 
car  rolls  glittering  through  the  city,  the  multitudes  sliout  and 
huzza.  Drive  on,  coachman.  Yes,  but  who  is  that  hanging  on 
behind  the  carriage'?  Is  this  the  reward  of  eloquence,  talents, 
industry?  Is  this  the  end  of  a  life's  labour  1  Don't  you  remember 
how,  when  the  dragon  was  infesting  the  neighbourhood  of  Babylon, 
the  citizens  used  to  walk  dismally  out  of  evenings,  and  look  at 
the  valleys  round  about  strewed  with  the  bones  of  the  victims 
whom  the  monster  had  devoured  1  0  insatiate  brute,  and  most 
disgusting,  brazen,  and  scaly  reptile  !  Let  us  be  thankful,  children, 
that  it  has  not  gobbled  us  up  too.  Quick  !  Let  us  turn  away, 
and  pray  tliat  we  may  be  kept  out  of  the  reach  of  his  horrible 
maw,  jaw,  claw ! 

When  I  first  came  up  to  London,  as  innocent  as  Monsieur  Gil 
Bias,  I  also  fell  in  with  some  pretty  acquaintances,  found  my  way 
into  several  caverns,  and  delivered  my  purse  to  more  than  one 
gallant  gentleman  of  the  road.  One  I  remember  especially — one 
who  never  eased  me  personally  of  a  single  maravedi — one  than 
whom  I  never  met  a  bandit  more  gallant,  courteous,  and  amiable. 
Rob  me?  Rolando  feasted  me;  treated  me  to  his  dinner  and  his 
wine ;  kept  a  generous  table  for  his  friends,  and  I  know  was  most 
liberal  to  many  of  them.  How  well  I  remember  one  of  his  specula- 
tions !  It  was  a  great  i)lan  for  smuggling  tobacco.  Revenue  officers 
were  to  be  bought  off";  silent  ships  were  to  ply  on  the  Thames ; 


ON    A    PEAR-TREE  391 

cunning  depots  were  to  lie  established,  and  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  pounds  to  be  made  by  the  coiqj.  How  his  eyes  kindled  as  he 
propounded  the  scheme  to  nie !  How  easy  and  certain  it  seemed  ! 
It  might  have  succeeded  :  I  can't  say  :  but  the  bold  and  merry,  the 
hearty  and  kindly  Rolando  came  to  grief — a  little  matter  of  imitated 
signatures  occasioned  a  Bank  persecution  of  Rohmdo  the  brave.  He 
walked  about  armed,  and  vowed  he  would  never  be  taken  alive : 
but  taken  he  was :  tried,  condemned,  sentenced  to  perpetual  banish- 
ment ;  and  I  heard  that  for  some  time  he  Avas  universally  popular 
in  the  colony  which  had  the  honour  to  possess  him.  AVhat  a  song 
he  could  sing !  'Twas  when  the  cup  was  sjjarkliug  before  us,  and 
Heaven  gave  a  portion  of  its  blue,  boys,  blue,  that  I  remember  the 
song  of  Roland  at  the  "  Old  Piazza  Coffee-house."  And  now  where 
is  the  "Old  Piazza  Coffee-house"?  Where  is  Thebes'?  where  is 
Troy  ?  where  is  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  ? — Ah,  Rolando,  Rolando  ! 
thou  wert  a  gallant  captain,  a  cheery,  a  handsome,  a  merry.  At 
me  thou  never  presentedst  pistol.  Thou  badest  the  bum])er  of 
burgundy  fill,  fill  for  me,  giving  those  who  preferred  it  champagne. 
Caelum  non  aninniiiij  &c.  Do  you  think  he  has  reformed  now 
that  he  has  crossed  the  sea,  and  changed  the  air?  I  have  my 
own  opinion.  Howbeit,  Rolando,  thou  wert  a  most  kind  and 
hospitable  bandit.  And  I  love  not  to  think  of  thee  with  a  chain 
at  thy  shin. 

Do  you  know  how  all  these  memories  of  unfortunate  men  have 
come  upon  me  ]  AVhen  they  came  to  frighten  me  this  morning  by 
speaking  of  my  rol)bed  pears,  my  perforated  garden  wall,  I  was 
reading  an  article  in  the  Saturday  Review  about  Rupilius.  I 
have  sat  near  that  young  man  at  a  public  dinner,  and  beheld 
him  in  a  gilded  uniform.  But  yesterday  he  lived  in  splendour, 
had  long  hair,  a  flowing  beard,  a  jewel  at  his  neck,  and  a  smart 
surtout.  So  attired,  he  stood  but  yesterday  in  court ;  and  to-day 
he  sits  over  a  bowl  of  prison  cocoa,  with  a  shaved  head,  and  in  a 
felon's  jerkin. 

That  beard  and  head  shaved,  that  gaudy  (le{)uty-lieuten;int's 
coat  exchanged  for  felon  uniform,  and  your  daily  bottle  of  chami)agiie 
for  prison  cocoa,  my  jioor  Rupilius,  what  a  comfort  it  nuist  be  to 
have  the  business  brought  to  an  end  !  Champagne  was  the  honour- 
able gentleman's  drink  in  the  House  of  Conunons'  dining-room,  as  I 
am  informed.  What  uncommonly  dry  chamijagne  that  must  have 
been  !  When  Ave  saAv  him  outwardly  hapjiy,  hoAv  miserable  he  nuist 
have  been  !  Avhen  Ave  thougiit  him  prosperous,  how  dismally  |toor  ! 
When  the  great  Mr.  Harker,  at  the  public  dinners,  called  out — ■ 
"  Gentlemen,  charge  your  glasses,  and  please  silence  for  the  Honour- 
able Member  for  Lambeth  ! "  how  that  Honourable  Member  must 


392  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

have  writhed  inwardly  !  One  day,  when  there  was  a  talk  of  a 
gentleman's  honour  being  questioned,  Rupilius  said,  "  If  any  man 
doubted  mine,  I  would  knock  him  down."  But  that  speech  was 
in  the  way  of  business.  The  Spartan  boy,  who  stole  the  fox, 
smiled  while  the  beast  was  gnawing  him  under  his  cloak :  I 
promise  you  Rupilius  had  some  sharp  fangs  gnashing  under  his. 
We  have  sat  at  the  same  feast,  I  say :  we  have  paid  our  contri- 
bution to  the  same  charity.  Ah  !  when  I  ask  this  day  for  my 
daily  bread,  I  pray  not  to  be  led  into  temptation,  and  to  be  de- 
livered from  evil. 


DESSEIF'S 


[ARRIVED  by  the  night-mail  packet  from  Dover.  The  passage 
ha<l  been  rough,  and  the  usual  consequences  had  ensued.  I 
was  disinclined  to  travel  farther  that  night  on  my  road  to 
Paris,  and  knew  the  Calais  hotel  of  old  as  one  of  the  cleanest,  one 
of  the  dearest,  one  of  the  most  comfortable  hotels  on  the  continent 
of  Europe.  There  is  no  town  more  French  than  Calais.  That 
charming  old  "  Hotel  Dessein,"  with  its  court,  its  gardens,  its  lordly 
kitchen,  its  princely  waiter — a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who 
has  welcomed  the  finest  company  in  Europe — have  long  been  known 
to  me.  I  have  read  complaints  in  the  Times,  more  than  once,  I 
think,  that  the  Dessein   bills   are   dear.     A   bottle   of  soda-water 

certainly  costs well,  never  mind  how  much.     I  remember  as  a 

boy,  at  the  "  Ship "  at  Dover  (imperante  Carolo  Decimo),  when, 
my  place  to  London  being  paid,  I  had  but  12s.  left  after  a  certain 
little  Paris  excursion  (about  which  my  benighted  parents  never 
knew  anything),  ordering  for  dinner  a  whiting,  a  beef-steak,  and  a 
glass  of  negus,  and  the  bill  was,  dinner  7s.,  glass  of  negus  2s., 
waiter  6d.,  and  only  half-a-crown  left,  as  I  was  a  sinner,  for  the 
guard  and  coachman  on  the  way  to  London  !  And  I  ?ras  a  sinner. 
I  had  gone  without  leave.  AVhat  a  long,  dreary,  guilty  forty  hours' 
journey  it  was  from  Paris  to  Calais,  I  remember  !  How  did  I  come 
to  think  of  this  escapade,  which  occurred  in  the  Easter  vacation  of 
the  year  1830?  I  always  think  of  it  when  I  am  crossing  to  Calais. 
Guilt,  sir,  guilt  remains  stamped  on  the  memory,  and  I  feel  easier 
in  my  mind  now  that  it  is  liberated  of  this  old  peccadillo.  I  met 
my  college  tutor  only  yesterday.  We  were  travelling,  and  stopped 
at  the  same  hotel.  He  had  the  very  next  room  to  mine.  After 
he  had  gone  into  his  apartment,  having  shaken  me  quite  kindly  by 
tlie  hand,  I  felt  inclined  to  knock  at  his  door  and  say,  "  Doctor 
Bentley,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  do  you  remember,  when  I  was 
going  down  at  the  Easter  vacation  in  1830,  you  asked  me  Avhere  I 
was  going  to  spend  my  vacation  1  And  I  said.  With  my  friend 
Slingsby,  in  Huntingdonshire.  Well,  sir,  I  grieve  to  have  to  con- 
fess that;  I  told  you  a  tib,     I  had  got  ^20  and  was  going  for  a  larl? 


394^  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

to  Paris,  where  iny  friend  Edwards  was  staying."  There,  it  is  out. 
The  Doctor  Avill  read  it,  for  I  did  not  wake  liini  ui)  after  all  to  make 
my  confession,  but  protest  he  shall  have  a  copy  of  this  Roundabout 
sent  to  him  when  he  returns  to  his  lodge. 

They  gave  me  a  bedroom  there ;  a  very  neat  room  on  the  first- 
floor,  looking  into  tlie  pretty  garden.  The  hotel  must  look  pretty 
much  as  it  did  a  hundred  years  ago  when  he  visited  it.  I  wonder 
whether  he  paid  his  bill  1  Yes  :  his  journey  was  just  begun.  He 
had  borrowed  or  got  the  money  somehow.  Such  a  man  would  spend 
it  liberally  enough  when  he  had  it,  give  generously — nay,  drop  a  tear 
over  the  fate  of  the  poor  fellow  whom  he  relieved.  I  don't  believe 
a  word  he  says,  but  I  never  accused  him  of  stinginess  about  money. 
That  is  a  fault  of  nuich  more  virtuous  people  than  he.  Mr.  Laurence 
is  ready  enough  with  his  purse  when  there  are  anybody's  guineas 
in  it.  Still  when  I  went  to  bed  in  the  room,  in  his  room ;  when  I 
think  how  I  admire,  dislike,  and  have  abused  him,  a  certain  dim 
feeling  of  apprehension  filled  my  mind  at  the  midnight  hour. 
AVhat  if  I  shouhl  see  his  lean  figure  in  the  black  satin  breeches, 
his  sinister  smile,  his  long  thin  finger  pointing  to  me  in  the  moon- 
light (for  I  am  in  bed,  and  have  popped  my  candle  out),  and  he 
should  say,  "  You  mistrust  me,  you  hate  me,  do  you  ?  And  you, 
don't  you  know  how  Jack,  Tom,  and  Harry,  your  brother  authors, 
hate  i/oii  ?  "  I  grin  and  laugh  in  the  n)oonliglit,  in  the  midniglit, 
in  the  silence.  "  0  you  ghost  in  black  satin  breeches  and  a  wig ! 
I  like  to  be  hated  by  some  men,"  I  say.  "  I  know  men  whose  lives 
are  a  scheme,  whose  laughter  is  a  conspiracy,  whose  smile  means 
something  else,  whose  hatred  is  a  cloak,  and  I  had  rather  these 
men  should  hate  me  than  not." 

"  My  good  sir,"  says  he,  with  a  ghastly  grin  on  his  lean  face, 
"  you  have  your  wish." 

"  Apres  ?"  I  say.  "  Please  let  me  go  to  sleep.  I  shan't  sleep 
any  the  worse  because " 

"  Because  there  are  insects  in  the  bed,  and  they  sting  you  ? " 
(This  is  only  by  way  of  illustration,  my  good  sir  :  the  animals  don't 
bite  me  now.  All  the  house  at  present  seems  to  me  excellently 
clean.)  "  'Tis  absurd  to  affect  this  indifference.  If  you  are  thin- 
skinned,  and  the  reptiles  bite,  they  keep  you  from  sleep." 

"  There  are  some  men  who  cry  out  at  a  liea-bite  as  loud  as  if 
they  were  torn  by  a  vulture,"  I  growl. 

" Men  of  the  <jenus  irritahile,  my  worthy  good  gentleman  ! — 
and  you  are  one." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  of  the  ])rofession,  as  you  say ;  and  I  daresay 
make  a  great  shouting  and  crying  at  a  small  hurt." 

"  You  are  ashamed  of  that  quality  by  which  you  earn  your  sub- 


DESSEIN'S  395 

sistence,  and  such  reputation  as  you  have  ?  Your  sensibility  is 
your  livelihood,  my  worthy  friend.  You  feel  a  pang  of  pleasure  or 
pain?  It  is  note<l  in  your  memory,  and  some  day  or  other  makes 
its  appearance  in  your  manusci'i})t.  Why,  in  your  last  Roundabout 
rubbish  you  mention  reading  your  first  novel  on  the  day  when 
King  George  IV.  was  crowned.  I  remember  liim  in  his  cradle  at 
St.  James's,  a  lovely  little  babe  ;  a  gilt  Ciiinesc  i-ailing  was  before 
him,  and  I  dropped  the  tear  of  sensibility  as  I  gazed  on  the  sleeping 
cherub." 

"  A  tear — a  fiddlestick,  Mr.  Sterne,"  I  growled  out,  for  of  course 
I  knew  my  friend  in  the  wig  and  satin  breeches  to  be  no  other  than 
the  notorious,  nay,  celebrated  Mr.  Laurence  Sterne. 

"  Does  not  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  infant  charm  and  melt  you, 
mon  ami  ?  If  not,  I  j)ity  you.  Yes,  he  was  beautiful.  I  was  in 
London  the  year  he  was  born.  I  used  to  breakfast  at  the  '  Mount 
Coff"ee-house.'  I  did  not  become  the  fashion  until  two  years  later, 
when  my  '  Tristram '  made  his  appearance,  who  has  held  his  own 
for  a  hundred  years.  By  the  way,  mon  hon  monsieur,  how  many 
authors  of  your  ])resent  time  will  last  till  the  next  century  1  Do 
you  think  Brown  will  ?  " 

I  laughed  with  scorn  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  (and  so  did  the  ghost 
give  a  ghastly  snigger), 

"  Brown  !  "  I  roared.  "  One  of  the  most  overrated  men  that 
ever  put  pen  to  paper  !  " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Jones  ?  " 

I  grew  indignant  with  this  old  cynic.  "  As  a  reasonable  ghost, 
come  out  of  the  other  world,  you  don't  mean,"  I  said,  "  to  ask  me 
a  serious  opinion  of  Mr.  Jones  1  His  books  may  lie  very  good 
reading  for  maid-servants  and  schoolboys,  but  you  don't  ask  me  to 
read  them'?     As  a  scholar  yourself  you  must  know  that " 

"  Well,  then,  Robinson "? " 

"  Robinson,  I  am  told,  has  merit.  I  daresay  ;  I  never  have 
been  able  to  read  his  books,  and  can't,  therefore,  form  any  opinion 
about  Mr.  Robinson.  At  least  you  will  allow  that  I  am  not  speak- 
ing in  a  prejudiced  manner  about  him.'" 

"  Ah  !  I  see  you  men  of  letters  have  your  cabals  and  jealousies, 
as  we  had  in  my  time.  There  was  an  Irish  fellow  by  the  name  of 
Goldsmith,  who  used  to  abuse  me ;  but  he  went  into  no  genteel 
company — and  faith  !  it  mattered  little,  his  praise  or  abuse.  I 
never  was  more  surprised  than  when  I  heard  that  Mr  Irving,  an 
American  gentleman  of  parts  and  elegance,  had  wrote  the  fellow's 
life.  To  make  a  hero  of  that  man,  my  dear  sir,  'twas  ridiculous  ! 
You  followed  in  the  fasliion,  I  hear,  and  chose  to  lay  a  wreath 
before  this  queer  little  idol.     Preposterous !     A  pretty  writer,  who 


S96  ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS 

has  turned  some  neat  couplets.  Pali !  I  have  no  patience  with 
Master  Posterity,  tliat  has  chosen  to  take  up  this  fellow,  and  make 
a  hero  of  him  !  And  there  was  another  gentleman  of  my  time, 
Mr.  Thiefcatcher  Fielding,  forsooth  !  a  fellow  with  the  strength, 
and  the  tastes,  and  the  manners  of  a  porter !  What  madness  has 
possessed  you  all  to  bow  before  that  Calvert  Butt  of  a  man  ? — a 
creature  without  elegance  or  sensibility !  The  dog  had  spirits, 
certainl}'.  I  remember  my  Lord  Bathurst  praising  them :  but  as 
for  reading  his  books — ma  foi,  I  would  as  lief  go  and  dive  for  tripe 
in  a  cellar.  The  man's  vulgarity  stifles  me.  He  Avafts  me  whiffs 
of  gin.  Tobacco  and  onions  are  in  liis  great  coarse  laugli,  which 
choke  me,pardi;  and  I  don't  think  much  better  of  the  other  fellow 
■ — the  Scots'  gallipot  purveyor  —  Peregrine  Clinker,  Humphrey 
Random — how  did  the  fellow  call  his  rubbish  ?  Neither  of  these 
men  liad  the  bel  air,  the  ban  ton,  theje  ne  sgais  quoy.  Pah!  If 
I  meet  them  in  my  Avalks  by  our  Stygian  river,  I  give  them  a  wide 
berth,  as  tliat  hybrid  apothecary  fellow  would  say.  An  ounce  of 
civet,  good  apothecary  :  horrible,  horrible !  The  mere  thought  of 
the  coarseness  of  those  men  gives  me  the  chair  de  poule.  Mr. 
Fielding,  especially,  has  no  more  sensibility  than  a  butcher  in  Fleet 
Market.  He  takes  his  heroes  out  of  ale-house  kitchens,  or  worse 
places  still.  And  this  is  the  person  whom  Posterity  has  chosen 
to  honour  along  with  me — me  I  Faith,  Monsieur  Posterity,  you 
have  put  me  in  pretty  company,  and  I  see  you  are  no  wiser  than 
we  were  in  our  time.  Mr.  Fielding,  forsooth  !  Mr.  Tripe  and 
Onions  !  Mr.  Cowheel  and  Gin  !  Thank  you  for  nothing,  Monsieur 
Posterity  ! " 

"And  so,"  thought  I,  "even  among  these  Stygians  this  envy 
and  quarrelsomeness  (if  you  will  permit  me  the  word)  survive? 
Wliat  a  pitiful  meanness !  To  be  sure,  I  can  understand  this 
feeling  to  a  certain  extent ;  a  sense  of  justice  will  prompt  it.  In 
my  own  case,  I  often  feel  myself  forced  to  protest  against  the 
absm-d  praises  lavished  on  contemporaries.  Yesterday,  for  instance. 
Lady  Jones  was  good  enough  to  praise  one  of  my  works.  JVes 
Men.  But  in  the  very  next  minute  she  began,  with  quite  as  great 
enthusiasm,  to  praise  Miss  Hobson's  last  romance.  My  good 
creature,  what  is  that  woman's  praise  worth  who  absolutely  admires 
the  writings  of  Miss  Hobson  1  I  offer  a  friend  a  bottle  of  '44 
claret,  fit  for  a  pontifical  supper.  '  This  is  capital  wine,'  says  he  ; 
'and  now  we  have  finished  the  bottle,  will  you  give  me  a  bottle  of 
that  ordinaire  we  drank  the  other  day  ? '  Very  well,  my  good  man. 
You  are  a  good  judge — of  ordinaire,  I  daresay.  Nothing  so  pro- 
vokes my  anger,  and  rouses  my  sense  of  justice,  as  to  hear  other 
men  undeservedly  praised.     In  a  word,  if  you  wish   to   remain 


DESSEIN'S  S97 

friends  with  mo,  don't  praise  anybody.  You  tell  me  that  the 
Venus  de'  Medici  is  beautiful,  or  Jacob  Omnium  is  tall.  Qtie 
diablel  Can't  I  judge  for  myself?  Haven't  I  eyes  and  a  foot- 
rule?  I  don't  tliink  the  Venus  is  so  handsome,  since  you  i)ress 
me.  She  is  pretty,  but  she  has  no  expression.  And  as  for  Mr. 
Omnium,  I  can  see  nuich  taller  men  in  a  fair  for  twopence." 

"And  so,"   I   said,   turning   round    to  Mr.    Sterne,   "you  are^i 
actually  jealous  of  Mr.  Fielding]     0  you  men  of  letters,  you  mcxil 
of  letters !     Is  not  tlie  world  (your  world  I  mean)  big  enough  foi' 
all  of  you  ?  " 

I  often  travel  in  my  sleep.  I  often  of  a  night  find  myself 
walking  in  my  night-gown  about  the  grey  streets.  It  is  awkward 
at  first,  but  somehow  nobody  makes  any  remark.  I  glide  along  over 
the  ground  with  my  naked  feet.  The  mud  does  not  wet  them. 
The  ])asscrs-by  do  not  tread  on  tliem.  I  am  wafted  over  the 
ground,  down  the  stairs,  through  the  doors.  This  sort  of  travelling, 
dear  friends,  I  am  sure  you  have  all  of  you  indulged  in. 

Well,  on  the  night  in  question  (and,  if  you  wish  to  know  the 
precise  date,  it  was  the  31st  of  September  last),  after  having  some 
little  conversation  with  Mr.  Sterne  in  our  bedroom,  I  must  have 
got  up,  though  I  protest  I  don't  know  how,  and  come  downstairs 
with  him  into  the  coffee-room  of  the  "  Hotel  Dessein,"  where  the 
moon  was  shining,  and  a  cold  supper  was  laid  out.  I  forget  what 
we  had — "  vol-au-vent  d'ceufs  de  Ph^nix — agneau  aux  pistaches  k 
la  Barmecide," — what  matters  what  we  had  1 

.   "  As  regards  supper  this  is  certain,  the  less  you  have  of  it  the 
better." 

That  is  what  one  of  the  guests  remarked, — a  shabby  old  man, 
in  a  wig,  and  such  a  dirty,  ragged,  disreputable  dressing-gown  that 
I  should  have  been  quite  surprised  at  him,  only  one  never  is 
surprised  in  dr under  certain  circumstances. 

"  I  can't  eat  'em  now,"  said  the  greasy  man  (with  his  false  old 
teeth,  I  wonder  he  could  eat  anything).  "I  remember  Alvanley 
eating  tjiree  suppers  once  at  Carlton  House — one  night  de  2^etite 
comite." 

*^  Petit  com  if  e,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sterne. 

"  Dammy,  sir,  let  me  tell  my  own  story  my  own  way.  I  say, 
one  night  at  Carlton  House,  playing  at  blind  hookey  with  York, 
Wales,  Tom  Raikes,  Prince  Boothby,  and  Dutch  Sam  tlie  lioxer, 
Alvanley  ate  three  suppers,  and  won  three  and  twenty  hundred 
pounds  in  ponies.  Never  saw  a  fellow  with  such  an  a]ii)etite,  ex- 
cept Wales  in  his  r/ood  time.  But  he  destroyed  the  finest  digestion 
a  man  ever  had  witli  maraschino,  by  Jove — always  at  it." 

"  Try  mine,"  said  Mr.  Sterne. 


398  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"  What  a  doo.sid  queer  box  !  "  says  Mr.  Brummel. 

"I  had  it  from  a  Caj)uchin  friar  in  this  town.  The  box  is 
but  a  horn  one ;  but  to  the  nose  of  sensibility  Araby's  perfume 
is  not  more  delicate." 

"  I  call  it  doosid  stale  old  rappee,"  says  Mr.  Brummel — (as  for 
me,  I  declare  I  could  not  smell  anything  at  all  in  either  of  the 
boxes).      "  Old  boy  in  smock-frock,  take  a  pinch  ? " 

The  old  boy  in  the  smock-frock,  as  Mr.  Brummel  called  him, 
was  a  very  old  man,  with  lorn,'  white  beard,  wearing,  not  a  smock- 
frock,  but  a  shirt ;  and  he  had  actually  nothing  else  save  a  rope 
rouu(l  his  neck,  which  liung  behind  his  chair  in  the  queerest  way. 

"Fair  sir,"  he  said,  turning  to  Mr.  Brummel,  "when  the 
Prince  of  AVales  and  his  father  laid  siege  to  our  town " 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking,  old  cock  1 "  says  Mr.  Brummel ; 
"Wales  was  never  here.  His  late  Majesty  George  IV.  passed 
through  on  his  way  to  Hanover.  My  good  man,  you  don't  seem 
to  know  what's  up  at  all.  What  is  he  talkin'  about  the  siege  of 
Calais  1  I  lived  here  fifteen  years  !  Ought  to  know.  What's  his 
old  name  1 " 

"  I  am  Master  Eustace  of  Saint  Peter's,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
in  the  shirt.  "  When  my  Lord  King  Edward  laid  siege  to  this 
city " 

"  Laid  siege  to  Jericho  !  "  cries  Mr.  Brummel.  "  The  old  man 
is  cracked — cracked,  sir  !  " 

" Laid  siege  to  this  city,"  continued  the  old  man,  "I  and 

five  more  promised  Messire  Gautier  de  Mauny  that  we  would  give 
ourselves  up  as  ransom  for  the  place.  And  we  came  before  our 
Lord  King  Edward,  attired  as  you  see,  and  the  fair  Queen  begged 
our  lives  out  of  her  gramercy." 

"  Queen,  nonsense  !  you  mean  the  Primness  of  Wales — pretty 
woman,  petit  nez  retrousse,  grew  monstrous  stout  1"  suggested 
Mr.  Brummel,  whose  reading  was  evidently  not  extensive.  "  Sir 
Sidney  Smith  was  a  fine  fellow,  great  talker,  hook  nose,  so  has 
Lord  Cochrane,  so  has  Lord  Wellington.  She  was  very  sweet  on 
Sir  Sidney." 

"  Your  acquaintance  with  the  history  of  Calais  does  not  seem 
to  be  considerable,"  said  Mr.  Sterne  to  Mr.  Brummel,  with  a  shrug. 

"Don't  it.  Bishop? — for  I  conclude  you  are  a  bishop  by  your 
wig.  I  know  Calais  as  well  as  any  man.  I  lived  here  for  years 
before  I  took  that  confounded  consulate  at  Caen.  Lived  in  this 
hotel,  then  at  Leleux's.  People  used  to  stop  here.  Good  fellows 
used  to  ask  for  poor  George  Brummel ;  Hertford  did,  so  did  the 
Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Not  know  Calais  indeed  !  That  is  a 
good  joke.     Had  many  a  good  dinner  here  :  sorry  I  ever  left  it." 


DESSEIN'S       .  399 

*'My  Lord  King  Edward,''  chirped  the  queer  old  gentleman 
in  the  shirt,  "colonised  the  place  witli  his  English,  after  Ave  had 
yielded  it  up  to  him.  I  have  heard  tell  they  kept  it  for  nigh  three 
hundred  years,  till  my  Lord  de  Guise  took  it  from  a  fair  Queen, 
Mary  of  blessed  memory,  a  holy  woman.  Eh,  hut  Sire  Gautier  of 
Mauny  was  a  good  knight,  a  valiant  caj)tain,  gentle  and  courteous 
withal !     Do  you  remember  his  ransoming  the " 

"What  is  the  old  fellow  twaddlin'  about?"  cries  Brunimel. 
"He  is  talking  about  some  knight? — I  never  spoke  to  a  knight, 
and  very  seldom  to  a  baronet.  Firkins,  my  butterman,  was  a 
knight — a  knight  and  alderman.  "Wales  kniglited  him  once  on 
going  into  the  City." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  that  the  gentleman  should  not  understand 
Messire  Eustace  of  Saint  Peter's,"  said  the  ghostly  individual 
addressed  as  Mr.  Sterne.  "Your  reading  doubtless  has  not  been 
very  extensive  ? " 

"Dammy,  sir,  sjjeak  for  yourself!"  cries  Mr.  Brummel  testily. 
"  I  never  professed  to  be  a  reading  man,  but  I  was  as  good  as  my 
neighbours.  Wales  wasn't  a  reading  man ;  York  wasn't  a  reading 
man ;  Clarence  wasn't  a  reading  man  ;  Sussex  was,  but  he  wasn't 
a  man  in  society.  I  remember  reading  your  '  Sentimental  Journey,' 
old  boy :  read  it  to  the  Duchess  at  Beauvoir,  I  recollect,  and  she 
cried  over  it.  Doosid  clever  amusing  book,  and  does  you  great 
credit.  Birron  wrote  doosid  clever  books,  too  ;  so  did  Monk  Lewis. 
George  Spencer  was  an  elegant  poet,  and  my  dear  Duchess  of 
Devonshire,  if  slie  had  not  been  a  grande  dame,  would  have  beat 
'em  all,  by  George !  Wales  couldn't  write  :  he  could  sing,  but  he 
couldn't  spell." 

"Ah,  you  know  the  great  world?  so  did  I  in  my  time,  Mr. 
Brummel.  I  have  had  the  visiting  tickets  of  half  the  nobility  at 
my  lodgings  in  Bond  Street.  But  they  left  me  there  no  more  cared 
for  than  last  year's  calendar,"  sighed  Mr.  Sterne.  "  I  wonder  who 
is  the  mode  in  London  now?  One  of  our  late  arrivals,  my  Lord 
Macaulay,  has  prodigious  merit  and  learning,  and,  foith,  his  histories 
are  more  amusing  than  any  novels,  my  own  included." 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure;  not  in  my  line.  Pick  this  bone  of 
chicken,"  says  Mr.  Brummel,  trifling  with  a  skeleton  bird  before 
him. 

"I  remember  in  this  city  of  Calais  worse  fare  than  yon  bird," 
said  old  Mr.  Eustace  of  Saint  Peter's.  "  Marry,  sirs,  when  my 
Lord  King  Edward  laid  siege  to  us,  lucky  was  he  who  could  get  a 
slice  of  horse  for  his  breakfast,  and  a  rat  was  sold  at  the  i)rice  of 
a  hare." 

"Hare  is  coarse  food,  never  tasted  rat,"  remarked  the  Beau. 


400  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

"  Tuble-d'hote  poor  fare  enough  for  a  man  like  me,  who  has  been 
accustomed  to  the  best  of  cookery.  But  rat — stifle  me !  I  couldn't 
swallow  that :  never  could  bear  hardship  at  all." 

"  We  had  to  bear  enough  when  my  Lord  of  England  pressed  us. 
'Twas  pitiful  to  see  the  faces  of  our  women  as  the  siege  went  on, 
and  hear  the  little  ones  asking  for  dinner." 

"  Always  a  bore,  children.  At  dessert,  they  are  bad  enough, 
but  at  dinner  they're  the  deuce  and  all,"  remarked  Mr.  Brummel. 

Messire  Eustace  of  Saint  Peter's  did  not  seem  to  pay  much 
attention  to  the  Beau's  remarks,  but  continued  his  own  train  of 
thought  as  old  men  will  do. 

"  I  hear,"  said  he,  "  that  there  has  actually  been  no  war  between 
us  of  France  and  you  men  of  England  for  well-nigh  fifty  year.  Ours 
has  ever  been  a  nation  of  warriors.  And  besides  her  regular  found 
men-at-arms,  'tis  said  the  English  of  the  present  time  have  more 
than  a  Inmdred  thousand  of  archers  with  weapons  that  will  carry 
for  half  a  mile.  And  a  multitude  have  come  amongst  us  of  late 
from  a  great  Western  country,  never  so  much  as  heard  of  in  my 
time — valiant  men  and  great  drawers  of  the  long-bow,  and  they 
say  they  have  ships  in  armour  that  no  shot  can  penetrate.  Is  it 
so  ?  Wonderfid  !  wonderful !  The  best  armour,  gossips,  is  a  stout 
heart." 

"And  if  ever  manly  heart  beat  under  shirt-frill,  thine  is  that 
heart,  Sir  Eustace  !  "  cried  Mr.  Sterne  enthusiastically. 

"  We,  of  France,  were  never  accused  of  lack  of  courage,  sir,  in 
so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Messire  Eustace.  "  We  have  shown  as 
much  in  a  thousand  wars  with  you  English  by  sea  and  land  ;  and 
sometimes  we  conquered,  and  sometimes,  as  is  the  fortune  of  war,  we 
were  discomfited.     And  notably  in  a  great  sea-fight  which  befell  off 

Ushant  on  the  first  of  June —     Our  Amiral,  Messire  Villaret  de 

Joyeuse,  on  board  his  galleon  named  the  Ve7ige2ir,  being  sore  pressed 
by  an  English  bombard,  rather  than  yield  the  crew  of  his  ship  to 
mercy,  determined  to  go  down  with  all  on  board  of  hef :  and  to  the 

cry  of  Vive  la  R^pub or,  I  would  say,  of  Notre  Dame  k  la 

Rescousse,  he  and  his  crew  all  sank  to  an  immortal  grave " 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  looking  with  amazement  at  the  old  gentleman, 
"  surely,  surely,  there  is  some  mistake  in  your  statement.  Permit 
me  to  observe  that  the  action  of  the  first  of  June  took  place  five 
hundred  years  after  your  time,  and " 

"  Perhaps  I  am  confusing  my  dates,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  a  faint  blush.  "  You  say  I  am  mixing  up  the  transactions  of 
my  time  on  earth  with  the  story  of  my  successors  1  It  may  be  so. 
We  take  no  coiuit  of  a  few  centuries  more  or  less  in  our  dwelling 
by  the  darkling  Stygian  rivex'.     Of  late,  there  came  amongst  us  a 


I 


DESSEIN'S  401 

good  knight,  Messire  de  Cambronne,  who  fought  against  you  English 
in  the  country  of  Flanders,  being  cai)tain  of  the  guard  of  my  Lord 
the  King  of  France,  in  a  foraous  battle  where  you  English  would 
have  been  utterly  routed  but  for  the  succour  of  the  Prussian 
heathen.  This  Messire  de  Cambronne,  when  bidden  to  yield  by 
you  of  England,  answered  this,  '  The  Guard  dies  but  never  sur- 
renders ; '  and  fought  a  long  time  afterwards,  as  became  a  good 
knight.  In  our  wars  with  you  of  England  it  may  have  pleased  the 
Fates  to  give  you  the  greater  success ;  but  on  our  side,  also,  there 
has  been  no  lack  of  brave  deeds  performed  by  brave  men." 

"  King  Edward  may  have  been  the  victor,  sir,  as  being  tlie 
strongest,  but  you  are  the  hero  of  the  siege  of  Calais  ! "  cried  Mr. 
Sterne.  "Your  story  is  sacred,  and  your  name  has  been  blessed 
for  five  hundred  years.  Wherever  men  speak  of  patriotism  and 
sacrifice,  Eustace  of  Saint  Pierre  shall  be  beloved  and  remembered. 
I  prostrate  myself  before  the  bare  feet  which  stood  before  King 
Edward.  What  collar  of  chivalry  is  to  be  compared  to  tliat  glorious 
order  which  you  wear  ?  Think,  sir,  how  out  of  the  myriad  millions 
of  our  race,  you,  and  some  few  more,  stand  forth  as  exemplars  of 
duty  and  honour.     Fortunati  niiuium  !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  I  did  but  my  duty  at  a  painful 
moment ;  and  'tis  matter  of  wonder  to  me  that  men  talk  still,  and 
glorify  such  a  trifling  matter.  By  Our  Lady's  grace,  in  the  fair 
kingdom  of  France,  there  are  scores  of  tliousands  of  men,  gentle 
and  simple,  who  would  do  as  I  did.  Does  not  every  sentinel  at  his 
post,  does  not  every  archer  in  the  front  of  battle,  brave  it,  and  die 
where  his  captain  bids  him  ?  Who  am  I  that  I  should  be  chosen 
out  of  all  France  to  be  an  example  of  fortitude'?  I  braved  no 
tortures,  though  these  I  trust  I  M'ould  have  endured  with  a  good 
heart.  I  was  subject  to  threats  only.  Who  was  the  Roman 
knight  of  whom  the  Latin  clerk  Horatius  tells  1 " 

"  A  Latin  clerk  ?  Faith,  I  forget  my  Latin,"  says  Mr. 
Brummel.      "  Ask  the  parson  here. 

"  Messire  Regulus,  I  remember,  was  his  name.  Taken  prisoner 
by  the  Saracens,  he  gave  his  knightly  word,  and  was  permitted  to 
go  seek  a  ransom  among  his  own  people.  Being  unable  to  raise 
the  sum  that  was  a  fitting  ransom  for  such  a  knight,  he  returned  to 
Afric,  and  cheerfully  submitted  to  the  tortures  which  the  Paynims 
inflicted.  And  'tis  said  he  took  leave  of  his  friends  as  gaily  as 
though  he  were  going  to  a  village  kermes,  or  riding  to  his  garden- 
house  in  the  suburb  of  the  city." 

"  Great,  good,  glorious  man  ! "  cried  Mr.  Sterne,  very  much 
moved.  "  Let  me  embrace  that  gallant  hand,  and  bedew  it  with 
my  tears  !     As  long  as  honour  lasts  thy  name  sliall  be  remembered. 

26 


402  KOUNDABOUT   PAPERS 

See  this  dewdrop  twinkling  on  my  cheek !  'Tis  the  sparkling 
tribute  that  Sensibility  pays  to  Valour.  Though  in  my  life  and 
practice  I  may  turn  from  Virtue,  believe  me,  I  never  have  ceased 
to  honour  her  !     Ah,  Virtue  !     Ah,  Sensibility  !     Oh " 

Here  Mr.  Sterne  was  interrupted  by  a  monk  of  the  Order  of 
Saint  Francis,  who  stepped  into  the  room,  and  begged  us  all  to 
take  a  pinch  of  his  famous  old  rappee.  I  suppose  the  snuff  was 
very  pungent,  for,  with  a  great  start,  I  woke  up  ;  and  now  per- 
ceived that  I  must  have  been  dreaming  altogether.  "  Dessein's  " 
of  nowadays  is  not  the  "  Dessein's "  which  Mr.  Sterne,  and  Mr. 
Brummel,  and  I  recollect  in  the  good  old  times.  The  town  of 
Calais  has  bought  the  old  hotel,  and  "  Dessein  "  has  gone  over  to 
"  Quillacq's."  And  I  was  there  yesterday.  And  I  remember  old 
diligences,  and  old  postillions  in  pigtails  and  jackboots,  who  were 
once  as  alive  as  I  am,  and  Avhose  cracking  whips  I  have  heard  in 
the  midnight  many  and  many  a  time.  Now,  where  are  theyl 
Behold,  they  have  been  ferried  over  Styx,  and  have  passed  away 
into  limbo. 

I  wonder  what  time  does  my  boat  go  ?  Ah  !  here  comes  the 
waiter  bringing  me  my  little  bill 


ON  SOME  CARP  AT  SANS  SOITCI 


WE  have  lately  made  the  acquaintance  of  an  old  lady  of 
ninety,  who  has  passed  the  last  twenty-five  years  of  her 
old  life  in  a  great  metropolitan  establishment,  the  work- 
house, namely,  of  the  parish  of  Saint  Lazarus.  Stay — twenty-three 
or  four  years  ago,  she  came  out  once,  and  thought  to  earn  a  little 
money  by  hop-picking ;  but  being  overworked,  and  having  to  lie 
out  at  night,  she  got  a  palsy  which  has  incapacitated  her  from  all 
further  labour,  and  has  caused  her  poor  old  limbs  to  shake  ever  since. 
An  illustration  of  that  dismal  proverb  which  tells  us  how 
poverty  makes  us  acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows,  this  poor  old 
shaking  body  has  to  lay  herself  down  every  night  in  her  workhouse 
bed  by  the  side  of  some  other  old  woman  with  whom  she  may  or 
may  not  agree.  She  herself  can't  be  a  very  j)leasant  bedfellow, 
poor  thing  !  with  her  shaking  old  limbs  and  cold  feet.  She  lies 
awake  a  deal  of  the  niglit,  to  be  sure,  not  thinking  of  happy  old 
times,  for  hers  never  wei-e  happy  ;  but  sleepless  with  aches,  and 
agues,  and  rheumatism  of  old  age.  "  The  gentleman  gave  me 
brandy-and-water,"  she  said,  her  old  voice  shaking  with  rapture  at 
the  thought.  I  never  had  a  great  love  for  Queen  Charlotte,  but  I 
like  her  better  now  from  what  this  old  lady  told  me.  The  Queen, 
who  loved  snuff  herself,  has  left  a  legacy  of  snuft'  to  certain  poor- 
houses  ;  and  in  her  watchful  nights,  this  old  woman  takes  a  ])inch 
of  Queen  Charlotte's  snuff,  "  and  it  do  comfort  me,  sir,  that  it  do  ! " 
Pulveris  exigui  miimcs.  Here  is  a  forlorn  aged  creature,  shaking 
with  palsy,  with  no  soul  among  the  great  struggling  multitude  of 
mankind  to  care  for  her,  not  quite  trampled  out  of  life,  but  passed 
and  forgotten  in  the  rush,  made  a  little  happy  and  soothed  in  her 
hours  of  unrest  by  this  penny  legacy.  Let  me  think  as  I  write. 
(The  next  month's  sermon,  thank  goodness  !  is  safe  to  press.)  This 
discourse  will  appear  at  the  season  when  I  have  read  that  wassail- 
bowls  make  their  appearance  ;  at  the  season  of  pantomime,  turkey 
and  sausages,  plam-i)uddings,  jollifications  for  schoolboys  ;  Christmas 
bills,  and  reminiscences  more  or  less  sad  and  sweet  for  elders.  If 
we  oldsters  are  not  merrv,  we  shall  be  having  a  semblance  of 


404  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

merriment.  We  sliall  see  the  young  folk  laughing  round  the  holly- 
bush.  AVe  shall  }»ass  the  bottle  round  cosily  as  we  sit  by  the  fire. 
That  old  thing  will  have  a  sort  of  festival  too.  Beef,  beer,  and 
pudding  will  be  served  to  her  for  that  day  also.  Christmas  falls 
on  a  Thursday.  Friday  is  the  workhouse  day  for  coming  out. 
Mary,  remember  that  old  Goody  Twoshoes  has  her  invitation  for 
Friday,  26th  December !  Ninety  is  she,  poor  old  soul  ?  Ah ! 
what  a  bonny  face  to  catch  under  a  mistletoe  !  "  Yes,  ninety,  sir," 
she  says,  "and  my  mother  was  a  hundred,  and  my  grandmother 
was  a  hundred  and  two." 

Herself  ninety,    her    mother   a   hundred,    her   grandmother   a 
hundred  and  two  1     What  a  queer  calculation  ! 

Ninety  !     Very  good,  granny  :  you  were  born,  then,  in  1772. 
Your  mother,  we  will   say,  was  twenty-seven  when  you  were 
born,  and  was  born  therefore  in  1745. 

Your  grandmother  was  thirty  when  her  daughter  was  born,  and 
was  born  therefore  in  1715. 

We  will  begin  with  the  present  granny  first.  My  good  old 
creature,  you  can't  of  course  remember,  but  that  little  gentleman 
for  whom  your  mother  was  laundress  in  the  Temple  was  the  ingeni- 
ous Mr.  Goldsmith,  author  of  a  "History  of  England,"  the  "Vicar 
of  Wakefield,"  and  many  diverting  pieces.  You  were  brought  almost 
an  infant  to  his  chambers  in  Brick  Court,  and  he  gave  you  some 
sugar-candy,  for  the  Doctor  was  always  good  to  children.  That 
gentleman  who  well-nigh  smothered  you  by  sitting  down  on  you  as 
you  lay  in  a  chair  asleep  was  the  learned  Mr.  S.  Johnson,  whose 
history  of  "  Rasselas "  you  have  never  read,  my  poor  soul;  and 
whose  tragedy  of  "  Irene  "  I  don't  believe  any  man  in  the^e  kingdoms 
ever  perused.  That  tipsy  Scotch  gentleman  who  used  to  come  to 
the  chambers  sometimes,  and  at  whom  everybody  laughed,  wrote 
a  more  amusing  book  than  any  of  the  scholars,  your  Mr.  Burke  and 
your  Mr.  Johnson,  and  your  Doctor  Goldsmith.  Your  father  often 
took  him  home  in  a  chair  to  his  lodgings ;  and  has  done  as  much 
for  Parson  Sterne  in  Bond  Street,  the  famous  wit.  Of  course,  my 
good  creature,  you  remember  the  Gordon  Riots,  and  crying,  "  No 
Popery ! "  before  Mr.  Langdale's  house,  the  Popish  distiller's,  and 
that  bonny  fire  of  my  Lord  Mansfield's  books  in  Bloomsbury  Square  1 
Bless  us,  what  a  heap  of  illuminations  you  have  seen  !  For  the 
glorious  victory  over  the  Americans  at  Breed's  Hill ;  for  the  peace 
in  1814,  and  the  beautiful  Chinese  bridge  in  St.  James's  Park;  for 
the  coronation  of  his  Majesty,  whom  you  recollect  as  Prince  of 
Wales,  Goody,  don't  you  1  Yes ;  and  you  went  in  a  procession  of 
laundresses  to  pay  your  respects  to  his  good  lady,  the  injured  Queen 
of  England,  at  Brandenburg  House ;  and  you  remember  your  mother 


ON    SOME    CARP    AT    SANS    SOUCI  405 

told  you  how  she  was  taken  to  see  the  Scotch  lords  executed  at  the 
Tower.  And  as  for  your  grandmother,  she  was  born  five  months 
after  the  battle  of  Malplaquet,  she  was ;  where  her  poor  father  was 
killed,  figliting  like  a  bold  Briton  for  the  Queen.  With  the  help 
of  a  "Wade's  Chronology,"  I  can  make  out  ever  so  queer  a  history 
for  you,  my  poor  old  body,  and  a  pedigree  as  authentic  as  many  in 
the  peerage-books. 

Peerage-books  and  pedigrees  1  What  does  she  know  about 
them  ?  Battles  and  victories,  treasons,  kings,  and  beheadings, 
literary  gentlemen,  and  the  like,  -what  have  they  ever  been  to  her ? 
Granny,  did  you  ever  hear  of  General  Wolfe  1  Your  mother  may 
have  seen  him  embark,  and  your  father  may  have  carried  a  musket 
vmder  him.  Your  grandmother  may  have  cried  huzza  for  Marl- 
borough ;  but  "vVliat  is  the  Prince  Duke  to  you,  and  did  you  ever  so 
much  as  hear  tell  of  his  name  ?  How  many  hundred  or  thousand 
of  years  had  that  toad  lived  who  was  in  the  coal  at  the  defunct 
Exhibition  1 — and  yet  he  was  not  a  bit  better  informed  than  toads 
seven  or  eight  hundred  years  younger. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  your  nonsense  about  Exhibitions,  and 
Prince  Dukes,  and  toads  in  coals,  or  coals  in  toads,  or  wliat  is 
it  ? "  says  Granny.  "  I  know  there  was  a  good  Queen  Cliarlotte, 
for  she  left  me  snuff;  and  it  comforts  me  of  a  night  when  I  lie 
awake." 

To  me  there  is  something  very  touching  in  the  notion  of  that 
little  innoh  of  comfort  doled  out  to  Gramiy,  and  gratefully  inhaled 
by  her  in  the  darkness.  Don't  you  remember  what  traditions  there 
used  to  be  of  chests  of  plate,  bulses  of  diamonds,  laces  of  inestimable 
value,  sent  out  of  the  country  privately  by  the  old  Queen,  to  enrich 
certain  relations  in  M-ckl-nb^rg  Str-l-tz  1  Not  all  the  treasure 
went.  JVon  omnis  moritur.  A  poor  old  palsied  thing  at  mid- 
night is  made  happy  sometimes  as  she  lifts  her  shaking  old  hand  to 
her  nose.  Gliding  noiselessly  among  the  beds  where  lie  the  poor 
creatures  huddled  in  tlieir  cheerless  dormitory,  I  fancy  an  old  ghost 
with  a  snurt-box  that  does  not  creak.  "  There,  Goody,  take  of  my 
rappee.  You  will  not  sneeze,  and  I  shall  not  say  *  God  bless  you.' 
But  you  will  think  kindly  of  old  Queen  Charlotte,  won't  you  ? 
Ah  !  I  had  a  many  troubles,  a  many  ti-oubles.  I  was  a  prisoner 
almost  as  much  as  you  are.  I  had  to  eat  brflled  mutton  every  day  : 
entre  ncnts,  I  abominated  it.  But  I  never  complained.  I  swallowed 
it.  I  made  the  best  of  a  hard  life.  We  have  all  our  burdens  to 
bear.  But  hark  !  I  hear  the  cock-crow,  and  snufi"  the  morning 
air."  And  with  this  the  Royal  ghost  vanishes  up  the  chimney — 
if  there  be  a  chimney  in  that  dismal  harem,  where  ])oor  old  Two- 
shoes  and  her  companions  pass  their  nights — their  dreary  nights, 


406  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

their  restless  nights,  their  cohl  long  nights,  shared  in  what  glum 
companionship,  illumined  by  what  a  feeule  taper  ! 

"  Did  I  understand  you,  my  good  Twoshoes,  to  say  that  your 
mother  was  seven-and-twenty  years  old  when  you  were  born,  and 
that  she  married  your  esteemed  father  when  she  herself  was  twenty- 
five?  1745,  then,  was  the  date  of  your  dear  mother's  birth.  I 
daresay  her  father  was  absent  in  the  Low  Countries,  with  his 
Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  under  whom  he  had  the 
honour  of  carrying  a  halberd  at  the  famous  engagement  of  Fontenoy 
— or  if  not  there,  he  may  have  been  at  Preston  Pans,  under  General 
Sir  John  Cope,  when  the  wild  Highlanders  broke  through  all  the 
laws  of  discipline  and  the  English  lines ;  and,  being  on  the  spot, 
did  he  see  the  famous  ghost  which  didn't  appear  to  Colonel  Gardiner 
of  the  Dragoons  1  My  good  creature,  is  it  possible  you  don't  re- 
member that  Doctor  Swift,  Sir  Robert  Walpole  (my  Lord  Orford, 
as  you  justly  say),  old  Sarah  Marlborough,  and  little  Mr.  Pope 
of  Twitnam,  died  in  the  year  of  your  birth'?  What  a  wretched 
memory  you  have  !  What  1  haven't  they  a  library,  and  the  com- 
monest books  of  reference  at  the  old  convent  of  Saint  Lazarus, 
where  you  dwell  1 " 

"  Convent  of  Saint  Lazarus,  Prince  William,  Doctor  Swift, 
Atossa,  and  Mr.  Pope  of  Twitnam  !  What  is  the  gentleman  talk- 
ing about  1 "  says  old  Goody,  with  a  "  Ho  !  ho ! "  and  a  laugh  like 
an  old  parrot — you  know  they  live  to  be  as  old  as  Methuselah, 
parrots  do,  and  a  parrot  of  a  hundred  is  comparrotively  young 
(ho !  ho !  ho  !).  Yes,  and  likewise  carp  live  to  an  immense  old 
age.  Some  which  Frederick  the  Great  fed  at  Sans  Souci  are  there 
now,  with  great  humps  of  blue  mould  on  their  old  backs ;  and  they 
could  tell  all  sorts  of  queer  stories,  if  they  chose  to  speak — but  they 
are  very  silent,  carp  are — of  their  nature  peu  communicatives.  Oh  ! 
what  has  been  thy  long  life,  old  Goody,  but  a  dole  of  bread  and 
water  and  a  perch  on  a  cage ;  a  dreary  swim  round  and  round  a 
Lethe  of  a  pond?  What  are  Rossbach  or  Jena  to  those  mouldy 
ones  1  and  do  they  know  it  is  a  grandchild  of  England  who  brings 
bread  to  feed  them  1 

No  !  Those  Sans  Souci  carp  may  live  to  be  a  thousand  years 
old  and  have  nothing  to  tell  but  that  one  day  is  like  another ;  and 
the  history  of  friend  Goody  Twoshoes  has  not  much  more  variety 
than  theirs.  Hard  labour,  hard  fare,  hard  bed,  numbing  cold  all 
night,  and  gnawing  hunger  most  days.  That  is  her  loL  Is  it 
lawful  in  my  prayers  to  say,  "  Thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  as  one  of 
these  "1  If  I  were  eighty,  would  I  like  to  feel  the  hunger  always 
gnawing,  gnawing  ?  to  have  to  get  up  and  make  a  bow  when  Mr. 
Dumble  the  beadle  entered  the  common  room  ?    To  have  to  listen 


ON    SOME    CARP   AT    SANS    SOUCI  407 

to  Miss  Prim,  who  came  to  give  me  her  ideas  of  the  next  world  ? 
If  I  were  eighty,  I  own  I  should  not  like  to  have  to  sleep  with 
another  gentleman  of  my  own  age,  gouty,  a  bad  sleeper,  kicking  in 
his  old  dreams,  and  snoring ;  to  march  down  my  vale  of  yeais  at 
word  of  command,  accommodating  my  tottering  old  steps  to  those 
of  the  other  i)risoners  in  my  dingy  hopeless  old  gang ;  to  hold  out 
a  trembling  hand  for  a  sickly  pittance  of  gruel,  and  say,  "  Thank 
you,  ma'am,"  to  Miss  Prim  when  she  has  done  reading  her  sermon. 
John !  when  Goody  Twoshoes  comes  next  Friday,  I  desire  she  may 
not  be  disturbed  by  theological  controversies.  You  have  a  very  fair 
voice,  and  I  heard  you  and  the  maids  singing  a  hymn  very  sweetly 
the  other  night,  and  was  thankful  that  our  humble  household 
should  be  in  such  harmony.  Poor  old  Twoshoes  is  so  old  and 
toothless  and  quaky,  that  she  can't  sing  a  bit ;  but  don't  be  giving 
yourself  airs  over  her,  because  she  can't  sing  and  you  can.  Make 
her  comfortable  at  our  kite-hen  hearth.  Set  that  old  kettle  to  sing 
by  our  hob.  Warm  her  old  stomach  with  nut-brown  ale  and  a  toast 
laid  in  the  fire.  Be  kind  to  the  poor  old  schoolgirl  of  ninety,  who 
has  had  leave  to  come  out  for  a  day  of  Christmas  holiday.  Shall 
there  be  many  m<jre  Christmases  for  thee  1  Think  of  the  ninety 
she  has  seen  already ;  the  fourscore  and  ten  cold,  cheerless,  nipping 
New  Years  ! 

If  you  were  in  her  place,  would  you  like  to  have  a  remembrance 
of  better  early  days,  Avhen  you  were  young,  and  happy,  and  loving, 
perhaps ;  or  would  you  prefer  to  have  no  past  on  which  your  mind 
could  rest?  About  the  year  1788,  Goody,  were  your  cheeks  rosy, 
and  your  eyes  bright,  and  did  some  young  fellow  in  powder  and  a 
pigtail  look  in  them  ?  We  may  grow  old,  but  to  us  some  stories 
never  are  old.  On  a  sudden  they  rise  up,  not  dead,  but  living — ■ 
not  forgotten,  but  freshly  remembered.  Tlie  eyes  gleam  on  ub  as 
they  used  to  do.  The  dear  voice  thrills  in  our  hearts.  The  rapture 
of  the  meeting,  the  terrible  terrible  jiarting,  again  and  again  the 
tragedy  is  acted  over.  Yesterday,  in  the  street,  I  saw  a  pair  of 
eyes  so  like  two  which  used  to  brighten  at  my  coming  once,  that 
the  whole  past  came  back  as  I  walked  lonely,  in  the  rush  of  the 
Strand,  and  I  was  yoimg  again  in  the  midst  of  joys  and  sorrows, 
alike  sweet  and  sad,  alike  sacred  and  fondly  remembered. 

If  I  tell  a  tale  out  of  school,  will  any  harm  come  to  my  old 
schoolgirl  ?  Once,  a  lady  gave  her  a  half-sovereign,  which  was  a 
source  of  great  pain  and  anxiety  to  Goody  Twoshoes.  She  sewed 
it  away  in  her  old  stays  somewhere,  thinking  here  at  least  was 
a  safe  investment — (vestis — a  vest — an  investment, — pardon  me, 
thou  poor  old  thing,  but  I  cannot  help  tlie  pleasantry).  And  what 
do  you  think  1     Another  jjenswnnaire  of  the  establishment  cut  the 


408  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

coin  out  of  Goody's  stays — an  old  woman  who  tuent  upon  tivc 
crutches !  Faugh,  the  old  witch !  What  ?  Violence  amongst 
these  toothless,  tottering,  trembling,  feeble  ones?  Robbery 
amongst  the  penniless?  Dogs  coming  and  snatching  Lazarus's 
crumbs  out  of  his  lapl  Ah,  how  indignant  Goody  was  as  she 
told  the  story !  To  that  pond  at  Potsdam  where  the  carp  live 
for  hundreds  of  hundreds  of  years,  with  hunches  of  blue  mould  on 
their  back,  I  daresay  the  little  Prince  and  Princess  of  Preussen- 
Britannien  come  sometimes  with  crumbs  and  cakes  to  feed  the 
mouldy  ones.  Those  eyes  may  have  goggled  from  beneath  the 
weeds  at  Napoleon's  jackboots ;  they  have  seen  Frederick's  lean 
shanks  reflected  in  their  pool ;  and  perhaps  Monsieur  de  Voltaire 
has  fed  them — and  now,  for  a  crumb  of  biscuit  they  will  fight, 
push,  hustle,  rob,  squabble,  gobble,  relapsing  into  their  tranquillity 
when  tlie  ignoble  struggle  is  over.  Sans  souci,  indeed !  It  is 
mighty  well  writing  "  Sans  souci "  over  the  gate ;  but  where  is  the 
gate  through  which  Care  has  not  slipped?  She  perches  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  sentry  in  the  sentry-box :  she  whispers  the  porter 
sleeping  in  his  arm-chair :  she  glides  up  the  staircase,  and  lies  down 
between  the  king  and  queen  in  their  bed-royal :  this  very  night 
I  daresay  she  will  perch  upon  poor  old  Goody  Twoshoes's  meagre 
bolster,  and  whisper,  "  Will  the  gentleman  and  those  ladies  ask  me 
again  ?  No,  no ;  they  will  forget  poor  old  Twoshoes."  Goody ! 
For  sliame  of  yourself!  Do  not  be  cynical.  Do  not  mistrust 
your  fellow-creatures.  What  ?  Has  the  Christmas  morning  dawned 
upon  thee  ninety  times  ?  For  fourscore  and  ten  years  has  it  been 
thy  lot  to  totter  on  this  earth,  hungry  and  obscure?  Peace  and 
goodwill  to  thee,  let  us  say  at  this  Cliristraas  season.  Come, 
drink,  eat,  rest  awhile  at  our  hearth,  thou  poor  old  pilgrim  !  And 
of  the  bread  which  God's  bounty  gives  us,  I  pray,  brother  reader, 
we  may  not  forget  to  set  aside  a  part  for  those  noble  and  silent 
poor,  from  whose  innocent  hands  war  has  torn  the  means  of  labour. 
Enougli !  As  I  hope  for  beef  at  Christmas,  I  vow  a  note  shall 
be  sent  to  Saint  Lazarus  Union  House,  in  which  Mr.  Roundabout 
requests  the  honour  of  Mrs.  Twoshoes's  company  on  Friday,  26th 
December. 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU 


NEVER  have  I  seen  a  more  noble  tragic  face.  In  the  centre 
of  the  forehead  there  was  a  great  furrow  of  care,  towards 
whicli  tlie  brows  rose  piteously.  What  a  deep  solemn  grief 
in  the  eyes  !  They  looked  blankly  at  the  object  before  them,  but 
through  it,  as  it  were,  and  into  the  grief  beyond.  In  moments  of 
pain,  have  you  not  looked  at  some  indifiereut  object  so  ?  It  mingles 
durably  with  your  grief,  and  remains  afterwards  connected  with  it 
in  your  mind.  It  may  be  some  indifferent  thing — a  book  which 
you  were  reading  at  the  time  when  you  received  her  farewell  letter 
(how  well  you  remember  the  paragraph  afterwards — the  shape  of 
the  words,  and  their  position  on  the  page)  ;  the  words  you  were 
writing  when  your  motlier  came  in,  and  said  it  was  all  over — she 
was  MARRIED — Emily  married — to  tliat  insignificant  little  rival 
at  whom  you  have  laughed  a  hundred  times  in  her  company.  Well, 
well;  my  friend  and  reader,  whoe'er  you  be — old  man  or  young, 
wife  or  maiden — you  have  had  your  gaief-pang.  Boy,  you  have 
lain  awake  the  first  night  at  school,  and  thought  of  home.  Worse 
still,  man,  you  have  parted  from  the  dear  ones  with  bursting  heart : 
and,  lonely  boy,  recall  the  bolstering  an  unfeeling  comrade  gave 
you;  and,  lonely  man,  just  torn  from  your  children — their  little 
tokens  of  affection  yet  in  your  pocket^ — pacing  the  deck  at  evening 
in  the  midst  of  the  roaring  ocean,  you  can  remember  how  you  were 
told  that  sup])er  was  ready,  and  how  you  went  down  to  the  cabin 
and  had  brandy-and-water  and  biscuit.  You  remember  the  taste  of 
them.  Yes ;  for  ever.  You  took  them  whilst  you  and  your  Grief 
were  sitting  together,  and  your  Grief  clutched  you  round  the  soul. 
Serpent,  how  you  have  writhed  round  me,  and  bitten  nie  !  Remorse, 
Remembrance,  &c.,  come  in  the  night  season,  and  I  feel  you  gnaw- 
ing, gnawing !  .  .  ,  I  tell  you  that  man's  face  was  like  Laocoon's 
(which,  by  the  way,  I  always  think  overrated.  The  real  head  is 
at  Brussels,  at  the  Duke  Daremberg's,  not  at  Rome). 

That  man  !  What  man  ?  That  man  of  whom  I  said  that  his 
magnificent  countenance  exhibited  the  noblest  tragic  woe.  He  was 
not  of  European  blood.     He  was  handsome,  but  not  of  European 


410  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

beauty  His  face  white — not  of  a  northern  whiteness;  his  eyes 
protruding  somewhat,  and  rolling  in  their  grief  Those  eyes  had 
seen  the  Orient  sun,  and  his  beak  was  the  eagle's.  His  lips  were 
full.  The  beard,  curling  round  them,  was  unkempt  and  tawny. 
The  locks  were  of  a  deep  deep  coppery  red.  The  hands,  swart  and 
powerful,  accustomed  to  tlie  rough  grasp  of  the  wares  in  which  he 
dealt,  seemed  uiuised  to  the  flimsy  artifices  of  the  bath.  He  came 
from  the  Wilderness,  and  its  sands  were  on  his  robe,  his  cheek,  his 
tattered  sandal,  and  the  hardy  foot  it  covered. 

And  his  grief— whence  came  his  sorrow  1  I  will  tell  you.  He 
bore  it  in  his  hand.  He  had  evidently  just  concluded  the  compact 
by  which  it  became  his.  His  business  was  that  of  a  purchaser  of 
domestic  raiment.  At  early  dawn — nay,  at  what  hour  when  the 
city  is  alive — do  we  not  all  hear  the  nasal  cry  of  "  Clo  "  ?  In  Paris, 
Habits,  Galons,  Marchand  d'habits,  is  the  twanging  signal  with 
which  the  wandering  merchant  makes  his  presence  known.  It  was 
in  Paris  I  saw  tliis  man.  Where  else  have  I  not  seen  him  1  In 
the  Roman  Ghetto — at  the  Gate  of  David,  in  his  fathers'  once 
imperial  city.  The  man  I  mean  was  an  itinerant  vendor  and  pur- 
chaser of  wardrobes — what  you  call  an Enough  !     You  know 

his  name. 

On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  bag ;  and  he  held  in  that  hand  a 
white  hat,  which  I  am  sure  he  had  just  purchased,  and  which  was 
the  cause  of  the  grief  which  smote  his  noble  features.  Of  course  I 
cannot  particularise  the  sura,  but  he  had  given  too  much  for  that 
hat.  He  felt  he  might  have  got  the  thing  for  less  money.  It  was 
not  the  amount,  I  am  sure  ;  it  was  the  principle  involved.  He 
had  given  fourpence  (let  us  say)  for  that  which  threepence  would 
have  purcliased.  He  had  been  done  :  and  a  manly  shame  was  upon 
him,  that  he,  whose  energy,  acuteness,  experience,  point  of  honour, 
should  have  made  him  the  victor  in  any  mercantile  duel  in  which 
he  should  engage,  had  been  overcome  by  a  porter's  wife,  who  very 
likely  sold  him  the  old  hat,  or  by  a  student  who  was  tired  of  it.  I 
can  understand  his  grief  Do  I  seem  to  be  speaking  of  it  in  a 
disrespectful  or  flippant  way]  Then  you  mistake  me.  He  had 
been  outwitted.  He  had  desired,  coaxed,  schemed,  haggled,  got 
what  he  wanted,  and  now  found  he  had  paiil  too  much  for  his 
bargain.  You  don't  suppose  I  would  ask  you  to  laugh  at  that 
man's  grief?  It  is  you,  clumsy  cynic,  who  are  disposed  to  sneer, 
whilst  it  may  be  tears  of  genuine  sympathy  are  trickling  down  this 
nose  of  mine.  What  do  you  mean  by  laughing  1  If  you  saw  a 
wounded  soldier  on  the  field  of  battle,  would  you  laugh  ?  If  you 
saw  a  ewe  robbed  of  her  lamb,  would  you  laugh,  you  brute  1  It  is 
you  who  are  the  cynic,  and  have  no  feeling  :  and  you  sneer  because 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU       411 

that  grief  is  unintelligible  to  you  which  touches  my  finer  sensibility. 
The  Old-Clothes'-Man  had  been  defeated  in  one  of  the  daily 
battles  of  his  most  interesting,  chequered,  adventurous  life. 

Have  you  ever  figured  to  yourself  what  such  a  life  must  be  1 
The  pursuit  and  conquest  of  twopence  must  be  the  most  eager  and 
fascinating  of  occupations.  We  might  all  engage  in  that  business  if 
we  would.  Do  not  whist-players,  for  example,  toil,  and  think,  and 
lose  their  temper  over  sixpenny  ])oints  1  Thoj^  bring  study,  natural 
genius,  long  forethought,  memory,  and  careful  historical  experience 
to  bear  upon  their  favourite  labour.  Don't  tell  me  that  it  is  the 
sixpenny  points,  and  five  shillings  the  rub,  which  keeps  them  for 
hours  over  their  painted  pasteboard.  It  is  the  desire  to  conquer. 
Hours  pass  by.  Night  glooms.  Dawn,  it  may  be,  rises  unlieeded  ; 
and  they  sit  calling  for  fresh  cards  at  the  "  Portland,"  or  the 
"  Union,"  w^hile  waning  candles  splutter  in  the  sockets,  and  languid 
waiters  snooze  in  tlie  ante-room.  Sol  rises.  Jones  has  lost  four 
pounds :  Brown  has  won  two  ;  Robinson  lurks  away  to  his  family 
house  and  (mayhap  indignant)  Mrs,  R.  Hours  of  evening,  night, 
morning,  have  passed  away  whilst  they  have  been  waging  this 
sixpenny  battle.  What  is  the  loss  of  foiu"  pounds  to  Jones,  the 
gain  of  two  to  Brown  1  B.  is,  perhaps,  so  rich  that  two  pounds 
more  or  less  are  as  naught  to  him  ;  J.  is  so  hopelessly  involved  that 
to  win  four  pounds  cannot  benefit  his  creditors,  or  alter  his  con- 
dition ;  but  they  play  for  tliat  stake  :  they  put  forward  their  best 
energies  :  they  rufl^,  finesse  (what  are  the  technical  words,  and  how 
do  I  know  1).  It  is  but  a  sixpenny  game  if  you  like ;  but  tliey 
want  to  win  it.  So  as  regards  my  friend  yonder  with  tlie  hat. 
He  stakes  his  money  :  he  wishes  to  win  the  game,  not  the  hat 
merely.  I  am  not  i>repared  to  say  that  he  is  not  inspired  by  a 
noble  ambition.  Csesar  wished  to  be  first  in  a  village.  If  first 
of  a  hundred  yokels,  why  not  first  of  two  ?  And  my  friend  the 
old-clothes'-man  wishes  to  win  his  game,  as  well  as  to  turn  his 
little  sixpence. 

Suppose  in  the  game  of  life — and  it  is  but  a  twopenny  game 
after  all — you  are  equally  eager  of  winning.  Shall  you  be  ashamed 
of  your  ambition,  or  glory  in  it  1  There  are  games,  too,  which  are 
becoming  to  particular  periods  of  life.  I  remember  in  the  days 
of  our  youth,  when  my  friend  Arthur  Bowler  was  an  eminent 
cricketer.  Slim,  swift,  strong,  well-built,  he  presented  a  goodly 
appearance  on  the  ground  in  his  flannel  uniform.  Alilitdsti  non 
sine  gloria,  Bowler  my  boy  !  Hush  !  We  tell  no  tales.  Mum 
is  the  word.  Yonder  conies  Charley  his  son.  Now  Charley  his 
son  has  taken  the  field,  and  is  famous  among  the  eleven  of  his 
school.     Bowler  senior,  with  his  capacious  waistcoat,  &c.,  waddling 


412  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

after  a  ball,  woiild  present  an  absurd  object,  whereas  it  does  the 
eyes  good  to  see  Bowler  junior  scouring  the  plain — a  young  ex- 
emplar of  joyful  health,  vigour,  activity.  The  old  boy  wisely  con- 
tents himself  with  amusements  more  becoming  his  age  and  waist ; 
takes  his  sober  ride  ;  visits  his  firm  soberly — -busies  himself  about 
his  pigs,  his  ploughing,  his  peaches,  or  what  not.  Very  small 
routinier  amusements  interest  him  ;  and  (thank  goodness  !)  nature 
provides  very  kindly  for  kindly-disposed  fogies.  We  relish  those 
things  which  we  scorned  in  our  lusty  youth.  I  see  the  young  folk 
of  an  evening  kindling  and  glowing  over  their  delicious  novels.  I 
look  up  and  watch  the  eager  eye  flashing  down  the  page,  being, 
for  my  part,  perfectly  contented  with  my  twaddling  old  volume  of 
"  Howel's  Letters,"  or  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.  I  am  actually 
arrived  at  such  a  calm  frame  of  mind  that  I  like  batter-pudding. 
I  never  should  have  believed  it  possible  ;  but  it  is  so.  Yet  a  little 
while,  and  I  may  relish  water-gruel.  It  will  be  the  age  of  mon 
lait  de  j^oule  et  Tiion  bonnet  de  nuit.  And  then — the  cotton 
extinguisher  is  pulled  over  the  old  noddle,  and  the  little  flame  of 
life  is  popped  out. 

Don't  you  know  elderly  people  who  make  learned  notes  in 
Army  Lists,  Peerages,  and  the  like?  This  is  the  batter-pudding, 
water-gruel  of  old  age.  The  worn-out  old  digestion  does  not  care 
for  stronger  food.  Formerly  it  could  swallow  twelve  hours'  tough 
reading,  and  digest  an  encyclopaedia. 

If  I  had  children  to  educate,  I  would,  at  ten  or  twelve  years 
of  age,  have  a  professor,  or  professoress,  of  whist  for  them,  and 
cause  them  to  be  well  grounded  in  that  great  and  useful  game. 
You  cannot  learn  it  well  when  you  are  old,  any  more  than 
you  can  learn  dancing  or  billiards.  In  our  house  at  home  we 
youngsters  did  not  play  whist  because  we  were  dear  obedient 
children,  and  the  elders  said  playing  at  cards  was  "a  waste  of 
time."  A  waste  of  time,  my  good  people  !  Allans !  What  do 
elderly  home-keeping  people  do  of  a  night  after  dinner?  Darby 
gets  his  newspaper ;  my  dear  Joan  her  Missionary  Magazine  or 
her  volume  of  Cumming's  Sermons — and  don't  you  know  what 
ensues?  Over  the  arm  of  Darby's  arm-chair  the  paper  flutters  to 
the  ground  unheeded,  and  he  performs  the  trumpet  obbligato  qiie 
voits  savez  on  his  old  nose.  My  dear  old  Joan's  head  nods  over  her 
sermon  (awakening  though  the  doctrine  may  be).  Ding,  ding,  ding  : 
can  that  be  ten  o'clock  ?  It  is  time  to  send  the  servants  to  bed, 
my  dear — and  to  bed  master  and  mistress  go  too.  But  they  have 
not  wasted  their  time  playing  at  cards.  Oh  no !  I  belong  to  a 
club  where  there  is  whist  of  a  night ;  and  not  a  little  amusing  is  it 
to  hear  Brown  speak  of  Thompson's  play,'  find  vice  versd.     But 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU       413 

there  is  one  man — Greatorex  let  us  call  liim — wlio  is  the  aclcnow- 
ledged  captain  and  primus  of  all  the  whist-j)layers.  We  all  secretly 
admire  him — I,  for  my  part,  watch  him  in  private  life,  hearken  to 
what  he  says,  note  what  he  orders  for  dinner,  and  have  that  feeling 
of  awe  for  him  that  I  used  to  have  as  a  hoy  for  the  cock  of  the 
school.  Not  play  at  whist?  "Quelle  triste  vieillesse  vous  vous 
preparez  ! "  were  the  words  of  the  great  and  good  Bishop  of  Autun. 
I  can't.  It  is  too  late  now.  Too  late  !  too  late  !  Ah !  humiliating 
confession  !  That  joy  miglit  have  been  clutched,  but  the  life-stream 
has  swept  us  by  it — the  swift  life-stream  rushing  to  the  nearing  sea. 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  Twentystone,  my  boy  !  when  you  read  in  the 
l^apers  "  Valse  k  deux  temps,"  and  all  the  fashionable  dances  taught 
to  adults  by  "  Miss  Lightfoots,"  don't  you  feel  tliat  you  would  like 
to  go  in  and  learn  1  Ah,  it  is  too  late  !  You  have  jmssed  the 
choreas,  Master  Twentystone,  and  the  young  peoj^le  are  dancing 
without  you. 

I  don't  believe  much  of  what  my  Lord  Byron  the  poet  says ; 
but  when  he  wrote,  "  So,  for  a  good  old  gentlemanly  vice,  I  tliink 
I  shall  put  up  with  avarice,"  I  think  his  Lordsliip  meant  what  he 
wrote,  and  if  he  practised  what  he  preached,  shall  not  quarrel  with 
him.  As  an  occupation  in  declining  years,  I  declare  I  think  saving 
is  useful,  amusing,  and  not  unbecoming.  It  must  be  a  perpetual 
amusement.  It  is  a  game  that  can  be  played  by  day,  by  night,  at 
home  and  abroad,  and  at  which  you  must  win  in  the  long  run.  I 
am  tired  and  want  a  cab.  The  fare  to  my  house,  say,  is  two 
shillings.  The  cabman  will  naturally  want  half-a-crown,  I  pull 
out  my  book.  I  show  him  the  distance  is  exactly  three  miles  and 
fifteen  hundred  and  ninety  yards.  I  offer  him  my  card — my 
winning  card.  As  he  retires  with  the  two  shillings,  blaspheming 
inwardly,  every  curse  is  a  compliment  to  my  skill.  I  have  played 
him  and  beat  him ;  and  a  sixpence  is  my  spoil  and  just  reward. 
This  is  a  game,  by  the  way,  which  women  play  far  more  cleverly 
than  we  do.  But  what  an  interest  it  imparts  to  life  !  During  the 
whole  drive  home  I  know  I  shall  have  my  game  at  the  journey's 
end  ;  am  sure  of  my  hand,  and  shall  beat  my  adversary.  Or  I 
can  play  in  another  way.  I  won't  have  a  cab  at  all,  I  will  wait 
for  the  omnibus :  I  will  be  one  of  the  damp  fourteen  in  that 
steaming  vehicle.  I  will  wait  about  in  the  rain  for  an  hour,  and 
'bus  after  'bus  shall  i)ass,  but  I  will  not  be  beat.  I  will  have  a 
place,  and  get  it  at  length,  with  my  boots  Avet  through,  and  an 
umbrella  drijiping  between  my  legs.  I  have  a  rheumatism,  a  cold, 
a  sore  throat,  a  sulky  evening, — a  doctor's  bill  to-morroAv  perhaps'? 
Yes,  but  I  have  won  my  game,  and  am  gainer  of  a  shilling  on  this 
rubber. 


414  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

If  you  play  this  game  all  through  life  it  is  wonderful  what  dailj 
interest  it  has,  and  amusing  occupation.  For  instance,  my  wife 
goes  to  sleep  after  dinner  over  her  volume  of  sermons.  As  soon  as 
the  dear  soul  is  sound  asleep,  I  advance  softly  and  puff  out  her 
candle.  Her  pure  dreams  will  be  all  the  happier  without  that  light ; 
and,  say  she  sleeps  an  hour,  there  is  a  penny  gained. 

As  for  clothes,  jtarhlev,  I  there  is  not  much  money  to  be  saved 
in  clothes,  for  the  fact  is,  as  a  man  advances  in  life — as  he  becomes 
an  Ancient  Briton  (mark  the  pleasantry) — he  goes  without  clothes. 
When  my  tailor  proposes  something  in  the  way  of  a  change  of 
raiment,  I  laugh  in  his  face.  My  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons  will 
last  these  ten  years.  It  is  seedy  ?  What  then  ?  I  don't  want  to 
charm  anybody  in  particular.  You  say  that  my  clothes  are  shabby  ? 
What  do  I  care  ?  Wiien  I  wished  to  look  well  in  somebody's  eyes, 
the  matter  may  have  been  different.  But  now,  when  I  receive  my 
bill  of  £10  (let  us  say)  at  tlie  year's  end,  and  contrast  it  with  old 
tailors'  reckonings,  I  feel  that  I  have  played  the  game  with  master 
tailor,  and  beat  liim  ;  and  my  old  clothes  are  a  token  of  the  victory. 

I  do  not  like  to  give  servants  board-wages,  though  they  are 
cheaper  than  household  bills  :  but  I  know  they  save  out  of  board- 
wages,  and  so  beat  me.  This  shows  that  it  is  not  the  money  but 
the  game  which  interests  me.  So  about  wine.  I  have  it  good  and 
dear.  I  will  trouble  you  to  tell  me  where  to  get  it  good  and  cheap. 
You  may  as  well  give  me  the  address  of  a  shop  where  I  can  buy 
meat  for  fourpence  a  pound,  or  sovereigns  for  fifteen  shillings  apiece. 
At  the  game  of  auctions,  docks,  shy  wine-merchants,  depend  on  it 
there  is  no  winning  ;  and  I  would  as  soon  think  of  buying  jewellery 
at  an  auction  in  Fleet  Street  as  of  purchasing  wine  from  one  of  your 
dreadful  needy  wine-agents  su<,'li  as  infest  every  man's  door.  Grudge 
myself  good  wine  ?  As  soon  grudge  my  horse  corn.  Merci  !  that 
would  be  a  very  losing  game  indeed,  and  your  humble  servant  has 
no  relish  for  such. 

But  in  the  very  pursuit  of  saving  there  must  be  a  hundred 
harmless  delights  and  pleasures  which  we  who  are  careless  necessarily 
forego.  What  do  you  know  about  the  natural  history  of  your 
household?  Upon  your  honour  and  conscience,  do  you  know  the 
price  of  a  pound  of  butter?  Can  you  say  what  sugar  costs,  and 
how  much  your  family  consumes  and  ought  to  consume?  How 
much  lard  do  you  use  in  your  house  ?  As  I  think  on  these  subjects 
I  own  I  hang  down  the  head  of  shame.  I  suppose  for  a  moment 
that  you,  who  are  reading  this,  are  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  and 
paterfamilias.  Can  you  answer  the  above  questions  ?  You  know, 
sir,  you  cannot.  Now  turn  round,  lay  down  the  book,  and  suddenly 
ask  Mrs.   Jones  and  your  daughters  if  they  can  answer?     Thejf 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU       415 

cannot.  Tliey  look  at  one  another.  They  pretend  they  can 
answer.  They  can  tell  you  the  plot  and  princijtal  characters  of  tlie 
last  novel.  Some  of  them  know  something  about  history,  geology, 
and  so  forth.  But  of  the  natural  history  of  home^ — Nichts,  and  for 
shame  on  you  all !  Honnis  soyez  !  For  shame  on  you  1  for  shame 
on  us ! 

In  the  early  morning  I  hear  a  sort  of  call  or  jodel  under  my 
window,  and  know  'tis  the  matutinal  milkman  leaving  his  can  at 
my  gate.  0  household  gods  !  have  I  lived  all  these  years  and  don't 
know  the  price  or  the  quantity  of  the  milk  which  is  delivered  in 
that  can  ?  Why  don't  I  know  1  As  I  live,  if  I  live  till  to-morrow 
morning,  as  soon  as  I  hear  tlie  call  of  Lactantius,  I  will  dash  out 
upon  him.  How  many  cows  1  How  much  milk,  on  an  average, 
all  the  year  round  1  What  rent  %  What  cost  of  food  and  dairy 
servants  ?  What  loss  of  animals,  and  average  cost  of  purchase  1 
If  I  interested  myself  properly  about  my  pint  (or  hogshead,  what- 
ever it  be)  of  milk,  all  this  knowledge  would  ensue ;  all  this 
additional  interest  in  life.  What  is  this  talk  of  my  friend,  Mr. 
Lewes,  about  objects  at  the  seaside,  and  so  forth  1  *  Objects  at 
the  seaside"?  Objects  at  the  area-bell  :  objects  before  my  nose  : 
objects  which  the  butcher  brings  me  in  his  tray  :  which  the  cook 
dresses  and  puts  down  l)efore  me,  and  over  which  I  say  grace  !  My 
daily  life  is  surrounded  with  objects  v  hich  ought  to  interest  me. 
The  pudding  I  eat  (or  refuse,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there ;  and, 
between  ourselves,  what  I  have  said  about  batter-pudding  may  be 
taken  cum  grano — we  are  not  come  to  that  yet,  except  for  the 
sake  of  argument  or  illustration) — the  pudding,  I  say,  on  my  plate, 
the  eggs  that  made  it,  the  fire  that  cooked  it,  the  tablecloth  on 
which  it  is  laid,  and  so  forth — are  each  and  all  of  these  objects  a 
knowledge  of  which  I  may  accpiire — a  knowledge  of  the  cost  and 
production  of  which  I  might  advantageously  learn  ?  To  the  man 
who  does  know  these  things,  I  say  the  interest  of  life  is  prodigiously 
increased.  The  milkman  becomes  a  study  to  him  ;  the  baker  a 
being  he  curiously  and  tenderly  examines.  Go,  Lewes,  and  claj)  a 
hideous  sea-anemone  into  a  glass  :  I  will  put  a  cabman  under  mine, 
and  make  a  vivisection  of  a  butcher.  0  Lares,  Penates,  and  gentle 
household  gods,  teach  me  to  sympathise  with  all  that  comes  within 
my  doors  !  Give  me  an  interest  in  the  butcher's  book.  Let  me 
look  forward  to  the  ensuing  numlier  of  the  grocer's  account  with 
eagerness.  It  seems  ungrateful  to  my  kitchen-chimney  not  to  know 
tne  cost  of  sweeping  it  ;  and  I  trust  that  many  a  man  who  reads 
this,  and  muses  on  it,  will  feel,  like  the  writer,  ashamed  of  himself, 
and  hang  down  his  head  humbly. 

*  "Seaside  Studies."     B^  G.  H.  Lewes, 


416  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

Now,  if  to  this  household  game  you  could  add  a  little  monej 
interest,  the  amusement  would  be  increased  far  beyond  the  mere 
money  value,  as  a  game  at  cards  for  sixpence  is  better  than  a 
rubber  for  nothing.  If  you  can  interest  yourself  about  sixpence, 
all  life  is  invested  with  a  new  excitement.  Frojn  sunrise  to  sleep- 
ing you  can  always  be  playing  that  game— with  butcher,  baker, 
coal-merchant,  cabman,  omnibus-man — nay,  diamond-merchant  and 
stockbroker.  You  can  bargain  for  a  guinea  over  the  price  of  a 
diamond  necklace,  or  for  a  sixteenth  per  cent,  in  a  transaction  at 
the  Stock  Exchange.  We  all  know  men  who  have  this  faculty  who 
are  not  ungenerous  with  their  money.  They  give  it  on  great 
occasions.  They  are  more  able  to  help  than  you  and  I  who  spend 
ours,  and  say  to  poor  Prodigal  who  comes  to  us  out  at  elbow, 
"  My  dear  fellow,  I  should  have  been  delighted :  but  I  have 
already  anticipated  my  quarter,  and  am  going  to  ask  Screwby  if 
he  can  do  anything  for  me." 

In  this  delightful,  wholesome,  ever-novel  twopenny  game,  there 
is  a  danger  of  excess,  as  there  is  in  every  other  pastime  or  occupa- 
tion of  life.  If  you  grow  too  eager  for  your  twopence,  the  acquisi- 
tion or  tlie  loss  of  it  may  affect  your  peace  of  mind,  and  peace  of 
mind  is  better  than  any  amount  of  twopences.  My  friend  the  old- 
clothes'-man,  whose  agonies  over  the  hat  have  led  to  this  rambling 
disquisition,  has,  I  very  much  fear,  by  a  too  eager  pursuit  of  small 
profits  disturbed  the  equanimity  of  a  mind  that  ought  to  be  easy 
and  happy.  "Had  I  stood  out,"  he  thinks,  "I  might  have  had 
the  hat  for  threepence,"  and  he  doubts  whether,  having  given  four- 
pence  for  it,  he  will  ever  get  back  his  money.  My  good  Shadrach, 
if  you  go  through  life  passionately  deploring  the  irrevocable,  and 
allow  yesterday's  transactions  to  embitter  the  cheerfulness  of  to-day 
and  to-morrow — as  lief  walk  down  to  the  Seine,  souse  in,  hats, 
body,  clothes-bag  and  all,  and  put  an  end  to  your  sorrow  and 
sordid  cares.  Before  and  since  Mr.  Franklin  wrote  his  pretty 
apologue  of  the  Whistle,  have  we  not  all  made  bargains  of  which 
we  repented,  and  coveted  and  acquired  objects  for  which  we  have 
paid  too  dearly  1  Wlio  has  not  purchased  his  hat  in  some  market 
or  other?  There  is  General  M'Clellan's  cocked-hat  for  example: 
I  daresay  he  was  eager  enough  to  wear  it,  and  he  has  learned  that 
it  is  by  no  means  cheerful  wear.  There  were  the  military  beavers  of 
Messeigneurs  of  Orleans :  *  they  wore  them  gallantly  in  the  face 
of  battle ;  but  I  suspect  they  were  glad  enough  to  pitch  them  into 
the  James  River  and  come  home  in  mufti.  Ah,  mes  amis !  a 
chacun  son  shako !      I  was  looking  at  a  bishop  the  other  day, 

*  Two  cadets  of  the  House  of   Orleans   who  served  as  volunteers  under 
Gteaeral  M'Clellan  in  his  campaign  against  Richmond. 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU      417 

and  thinking,  "  My  right  reverend  lord,  that  broad-brim  and  rosette 
must  bind  your  great  broad  forehead  very  tightly,  and  give  you 
many  a  headache.  A  good  easy  wideawake  were  better  for  you, 
and  I  would  like  to  see  that  honest  face  with  a  cutty -pipe  in  the 
middle  of  it."  There  is  my  Lord  Mayor.  My  once  dear  lord,  my 
kind  friend,  when  your  two  years'  reign  was  over,  did  you  not 
jump  for  joy  and  fling  your  chaj^eau-hras  out  of  window :  and 
hasn't  that  hat  cost  you  a  pretty  bit  of  mctney?  There,  in  a 
splendid  travelling  chariot,  in  the  sweetest  bonnet,  all  trimmed 
with  orange-blossoms  and  Chantilly  lace,  sits  my  Lady  Rosa,  with 
old  Lord  Snowden  by  her  side.  Ah,  Rosa  !  what  a  price  have 
you  paid  for  that  hat  which  you  wear ;  and  is  your  Ladyship's 
coronet  not  purchased  too  dear?  Enough  of  hats.  Sir,  or  Madam, 
I  take  oflf  mine,  and  salute  you  with  profound  respect. 


ON  ALEXANDRINES* 

A   LETTER   TO    SOME    COUNTRY    COUSINS 

DEAR  COUSINS, — -Be  pleased  to  receive  herewith  a  packet 
of  Mayall's  photographs,  and  copies  of  Illust7-ated  News, 
Illustrated  Times,  London  Jieview,  Queen,  and  Observer, 
each  containing  an  account  of  the  notable  festivities  of  the  past 
week.  If,  besides  these  remembrances  of  home,  you  have  a  mind 
to  read  a  letter  from  an  old  friend,  behold  here  it  is.  When  I  was 
at  school,  having  left  my  parents  in  India,  a  good-natured  captain 
or  colonel  would  come  sometimes  and  see  us  Indian  boys,  and  talk 
to  us  about  papa  and  mamma,  and  give  us  coins  of  the  realm,  and 
write  to  our  parents,  and  say,  "  I  drove  over  yesterday  and  saw 
Tommy  at  Doctor  Birch's.  I  took  him  to  the  '  George,'  and  gave 
him  a  dinner.  His  appetite  is  fine.  He  states  that  he  is  reading 
'  Cornelius  Nepos,'  with  wliich  he  is  much  interested.  His  masters 
report,"  &c.  And  though  Doctor  Bircli  wrote  by  the  same  mail  a 
longer,  fuller,  and  official  statement,  I  have  no  doubt  the  distant 
parents  preferred  the  friend's  letter,  with  its  artless,  possibly  un- 
grammatical,  account  of  their  little  darling. 

I  have  seen  the  young  heir  of  Britain.  These  eyes  have  beheld 
him  and  liis  bride,  on  Saturday  in  Pall  Mall,  and  on  Tuesday  in 
the  nave  of  Saint  George's  Chapel  at  Windsor,  when  the  young 
Princess  Alexandra  of  Denmark  passed  by  with  her  blooming  pro- 
cession of  bridesmaids  ;  and  half-an-hour  later,  when  the  Princess  of 
Wales  came  forth  from  the  chapel,  her  husband  by  her  side  robed 
in  the  purple  mantle  of  the  famous  Order  which  his  forefather 
established  here  five  hundred  years  ago.  We  were  to  see  her  yet 
once  again,  when  her  open  carriage  passed  out  of  the  Castle  gate 
to  the  station  of  tlie  near  railway  which  was  to  convey  her  to 
Southampton. 

Since  womankind  existed,  has  any  woman  ever  had  such  a 
greeting?  At  ten  hours'  distance,  there  is  a  city  far  more  magni- 
ficent than  ours.     With  every  respect  for  Kensington  turnpike,  I 

*  This  paper,  it  is  almost  needless  to  say,  was  written  just  after  the  marriage 
pf  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  in  March  1863, 


ON    ALEXANDRINES  419 

own  that  the  Arc  de  I'Etoile  at  Paris  is  a  iinicli  finer  entrance  to  an 
Imperial  capital.  In  our  black,  orderless,  zigzag  streets,  we  can 
show  nothing  to  compare  with  the  magnificent  array  of  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  that  enormous  regiment  of  stone  stretching  for  five  miles 
and  presenting  arms  before  the  Tuileries.  Think  of  the  late  Fleet 
Prison  and  Waithman's  Obelisk,  and  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
and  the  Luxor  Stone  !  "  The  finest  site  in  Europe,"  as  Trafalgar 
Square  has  been  called  by  some  obstinate  British  optimist,  is  dis- 
figured by  trophies,  fountains,  columns,  and  statues  so  puerile, 
disorderly,  and  hideous,  that  a  lover  of  the  arts  must  hang  the  head 
of  shame  as  he  passes  to  see  our  dear  old  queen  city  arraying  herself 
so  absurdly ;  but  when  all  is  said  and  done,  we  can  show  one  or  two 
of  the  greatest  sights  in  the  world.  I  doubt  if  any  Roman  festival 
was  as  vast  or  as  striking  as  the  Derby  day,  or  if  any  Imperial 
triumph  could  show  such  a  prodigious  muster  of  faithful  people  as 
our  young  Princess  saw  on  Saturday,  when  the  nation  turned  out 
to  greet  her.  The  calculators  are  squabbling  about  the  numbers  of 
hundreds  of  tliousands,  of  millions,  who  came  forth  to  see  her  and 
bid  her  welcome.  Imagine  beacons  flaming,  rockets  blazing,  yards 
manned,  ships  and  forts  saluting  with  their  thunde]',  every  steamer 
and  vessel,  every  town  and  village  from  Ramsgate  to  Gravesend, 
swarming  with  happy  gratulation ;  young  girls  with  flowers 
scattering  roses  before  her ;  staid  citizens  and  aldermen  pushing 
and  squeezing  and  panting  to  make  the  speech,  and  bow  the  knee, 
and  bid  her  welcome  !  Who  is  this  who  is  honoured  with  such  a 
prodigious  triumph,  and  received  with  a  welcome  so  astonishing'? 
A  year  ago  we  had  never  heard  of  her.  I  think  about  her  ])edigree 
and  family  not  a  few  of  us  are  in  the  dark  still,  and  I  own,  for  my 
part,  to  be  much  puzzled  by  the  allusions  of  newspaper  genealogists 
and  bards  and  skalds  to  Vikings,  Berserkers,  and  so  foith.  But  it 
would  be  interesting  to  know  how  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
photographs  of  the  fair  bright  face  have  by  this  time  made  it 
beloved  and  familiar  in  British  homes.  Think  of  all  the  quiet 
country  nooks  from  Land's  End  to  Caithness,  where  kind  eyes  haAe 
glanced  at  it.  The  farmer  brings  it  home  from  market ;  the  Curate 
from  his  visit  to  the  Cathedral  town ;  the  rustic  folk  peer  at  it 
through  the  little  village  shop-window ;  the  squire's  children  gaze 
on  it  round  the  drawing-room  table ;  every  eye  that  beholds  it  looks 
tenderly  on  its  bright  beauty  and  sweet  artless  grace,  and  young 
and  old  pray  God  bless  her.  We  have  an  elderly  friend  (a  certain 
Goody  Twoshoes)  who  inhabits,  with  many  other  old  ladies,  the 
Union  House  of  the  parish  of  Saint  Lazarus  in  Soho.  One  of  your 
cousins  from  this  house  went  to  see  her,  and  found  Goody  and  her 
companion  crones  all  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  about  the  marriage. 


420  EOUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

The  whitewashed  walls  of  tlieir  bleak  dormitory  were  ornamented 
with  prints  out  of  the  illustrated  journals,  and  hung  with  festoons 
and  true-lovers'  knots  of  tape  and  coloured  paper ;  and  the  old 
bodies  had  had  a  good  dinner,  and  the  old  tongues  were  chirping 
and  clacking  away,  all  eager,  interested,  sympathising ;  and  one  very 
elderly  and  rheumatic  Goody,  who  is  obliged  to  keep  her  bed  (and  has, 
I  trust,  an  exaggerated  idea  of  the  cares  attending  on  Royalty),  said, 
"  Pore  thing,  pore  thing  !  I  pity  her."  Yes,  even  in  that  dim  place 
there  was  a  little  brightness  and  a  quavering  huzza,  a  contribution 
of  a  mite  subscribed  by  those  dozen  poor  old  widows  to  the  treasure 
of  loyalty  with  which  the  nati(ni  endows  the  Prince's  bride. 

Three  hundred  years  ago,  when  our  dread  Sovereign  Lady 
Elizabeth  came  to  take  possession  of  her  realm  and  cajjital  city, 
Holinshed,  if  you  please  (whose  pleasing  history  of  course  you  carry 
about  with  you),  relates  in  his  fourth  volume  folio,  that — "At  hir 
entring  the  citie,  she  was  of  the  people  received  maruellous  intierlie, 
as  appeared  by  the  assemblies,  praiers,  welcommings,  cries,  and  all 
other  signes  which  argued  a  woonderfull  earnest  lone  : "  and  at 
various  halting-places  on  the  Royal  progress  chiMreu  habited  like 
angels  appeared  out  of  allegoric  edifices  and  spoke  verses  to  her — 

"  Welcome,  0  Queen,  as  much  as  heart  can  think  ; 
Welcome  again,  as  much  as  tongue  can  tell ; 
Welcome  to  joyous  tongues  and  hearts  that  will  not  shrink. 
God  thee  preserve,  we  pray,  and  wish  thee  ever  well  1 " 

Our  new  Princess,  you  may  be  sure,  has  also  had  her  Alexan- 
drines, and  many  minstrels  have  gone  before  her  singing  her  praises. 
Mr.  Tupper,  who  begins  in  very  great  force  and  strength,  and  who 
proposes  to  give  lier  no  less  than  eight  hundred  thousand  welcomes 
in  the  first  twenty  lines  of  his  ode,  is  not  satisfied  with  this  most 
liberal  amount  of  acc^lamation,  but  proposes  at  the  end  of  his  poem 
a  still  more  magnificent  subscription.  Thus  we  begin,  "  A  hundred 
thousand  welcomes,  a  hundred  th(nisand  welcomes."  (In  my  copy 
the  figiircs  are  in  tlie  well-known  Arabic  numerals,  but  let  us  have 
the  numbers  literally  accurate)  : — ■ 

"  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes  ! 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes  ! 

And  a  hundred  thousand  more ! 
0  happy  heart  of  England, 
Shout  nloud  and  sing,  land, 

As  no  land  sang  before  ; 
And  let  the  pjeans  soar 
And  ring  from  shore  to  shore, 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 

And  a  hundred  thousand  moro  ; 


ON    ALEXANDRINES  421 

And  let  the  cannons  roar 

The  joy-stunned  city  o'er. 
And  let  the  steeples  chime  it 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 
And  a  hundred  thousand  more  ; 

And  let  the  people  rhyme  it 

From  neighbour's  door  to  door, 

From  every  man's  heart's  core, 
A  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 
And  a  hundred  thousand  more." 

This  contribution,  in  twenty  not  long  lines,  of  900,000  (say 
nine  liundred  tliousand)  -weleoracs  is  handsome  indeed  ;  and  shows 
that  when  our  bard  is  inclined  to  be  liberal,  he  does  not  look  to  the 
cost.     But  what  is  a  sum  of  900,000  to  his  further  proposal  1 — 

"  0  let  all  these  declare  it, 
Let  miles  of  shouting  swear  it, 

In  all  the  years  of  yore, 

Unparalleled  before  ! 
And  thou,  most  welcome  Wand'rer 

Across  the  Northern  Water, 
Our  England's  Alexandra, 

Our  dear  adopted  daughter — 
Lay  to  thine  heart,  conned  o'er  and  o'er, 

In  future  years  remembered  well, 

The  magic  fervour  of  this  spell 
That  shakes  the  land  from  shore  to  shore. 
And  makes  ail  liearts  and  eyes  brim  o'er; 

Our  hundred  thousand  welcomes, 

Our  fifty  million  welcomes, 
And  a  hundred  million  more  !  " 

Here  we  have,  besides  the  most  liberal  previous  subscrip- 
tion, a  further  call  on  the  public  for  no  less  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  million  one  hundred  thousand  welcomes  for  her  Royal 
Highness.  How  much  is  this  jter  head  for  all  of  us  in  the  three 
kingdoms'?  Not  above  five  welcomes  apiece,  and  I  am  sure 
many  of  us  have  given  more  than  five  hurrahs  to  the  fair  young 
Princess. 

Each  man  sings  according  to  his  voice,  and  gives  in  proportion 
to  his  means.  The  guns  at  Sheerness  "from  their  adamantine  lips" 
(which  had  .spoken  in  quarrelsome  old  times  a  very  different 
language)  roared  a  hundred  tlumdering  welcomes  to  the  fair  Dane. 
The  maidens  of  England  strewed  roses  before  her  feet  at  Gravesend 
when  she  landed.  Mr.  Tupper,  with  the  million  and  odd  welcome.^, 
may  be  compared  to  the  thundering   fleet;   IMr.   Chorley's  song, 


422  .          EOWNDABOUT    PAPERS 

to  the  flowerets  scattered  on  her  Royal  Highness's  happy  and 
carpeted  path : — 

"  Blessings  on  tliat  fair  face  ! 

Safe  on  the  shore 
Of  her  home-dwelling  place. 

Stranger  no  more. 
Love,  from  her  household  shrine. 

Keep  sorrow  far ! 
May  for  her  hawthorn  twine, 
June  bring  sweet  eglantine, 
Autumn,  the  golden  vine, 

Dear  Northern  Star  !  " 

Hawthorn  for  May,  eglantine  for  June,  and  in  autumn  a  little  tasse 
of  the  golden  yine  for  our  Northern  Star.  I  am  sure  no  one  will 
grudge  the  Princess  these  simple  enjoyments,  and  of  the  produce 
of  the  last-named  pleasing  plant,  I  wonder  how  many  bumpers 
were  drunk  to  her  health  on  the  happy  day  of  her  bridal  1  As  for 
the  Laureate's  verses,  I  would  respectfully  liken  his  Highness  to  a 
giant  showing  a  beacon  torch  on  "a  windy  headland."  His  flaring 
torch  is  a  pine-tree,  to  be  sure,  which  nobody  can  wield  but  himself. 
He  waves  it :  and  four  times  in  the  midniglit  he  shouts  mightily, 
"  Alexandra  !  "  and  the  Pontic  pine  is  whirled  into  the  ocean,  and 
Euceladus  goes  home. 

Whose  muse,  whose  cornemuse,  sounds  with  such  plaintive 
sweetness  from  Arthur's  Seat,  while  Edinburgh  and  Musselburgh 
lie  rapt  in  delight,  and  the  mermaids  come  flapping  up  to  Leith 
shore  to  hear  the  exquisite  music  ?  Sweeter  piper  Edina  knows 
not  than  Aytoun,  the  Bard  of  the  Cavaliers,  who  has  given  in  his 
frank  adhesion  to  the  reigning  dynasty.  When  a  most  beautiful, 
celebrated  and  unfortunate  princess  whose  memory  the  Professor 
loves— when  Mary,  wife  of  Francis  the  Second,  King  of  France, 
and  by  her  own  right  proclaimed  Queen  of  Scotland  and  England 
(poor  soul !),  entered  Paris  with  her  young  bridegroom,  good  Peter 
Ronsard  wrote  of  her — 

"Toi  qui  as  veu  I'excellence  de  celle 
Qui  rend  le  ciel  de  I'Escosse  envieux, 
Dy  hardiment,  contentez  vous  mes  yeux, 
Vous  ne  verrez  jamais  chose  plus  belle."* 

"  Vous  ne  verrez  jamais  chose  plus  belle."  Here  is  an  Alex- 
andrine written  three  hundred  years  ago,  as  simple  as  hon  joitr. 
Professor  Aytoun  is  more  ornate.  After  elegantly  complimenting 
the  spring,  and  a  description  of  her  Royal  Higlmess's  well-known 
ancestors  the  "  Berserkers,"  he  bursts  forth — 


Quoted  ia  Mignet's  "liife  of  Mary." 


ON    ALEXANDRINES  423 

"The  Rose  of  Denmark  conies,  the  Royal  Bride! 
O  loveliest  Rose  !  our  jvaragou  and  pride — 
Choice  of  the  Prince  whom  England  holds  so  dear — 
<Vhat  homage  shall  we  pay 
To  one  who  has  no  peer? 
What  can  the  bard  or  wildered  minstrel  say 
More  than  the  peasant  who  on  bended  knee 
Breathes  from  his  heart  an  earnest  prayer  for  thee  ? 
Words  are  not  fair,  if  that  they  would  express 
Is  fairer  still ;  so  lovers  in  dismay 
Stand  all  abashed  before  that  loveliness 
They  worship  most,  but  find  no  words  to  pray. 
Too  sweet  for  incense  !  (bravo!)  Take  our  loves  iiistead —         ^ 
Most  freely,  truly,  and  devoutly  given  ; 
Our  power  for  blessings  on  that  gentle  head, 
For  earthly  happiness  and  rest  in  heaven  ! 
May  never  sorrow  dim  those  dovelike  eyes. 
But  peace  as  pure  as  reigned  in  Paradise, 
Calm  and  untainted  on  creation's  eve, 
Attend  thee  still !    May  holy  angels,"  &c. 

This  is  all  very  well,  my  dear  country  cousins.  But  will  you 
say  "Amen"  to  this  prayer?  I  won't.  Assuredly  our  fair 
Princess  will  shed  many  tears  out  of  the  "dovelike  eyes,"  or  tlie 
heart  will  be  little  worth.  Is  she  to  know  no  parting,  no  cnic, 
no  anxious  longing,  no  tender  watches  by  the  sick,  to  dejilorc  no 
friends  and  kindred,  and  feel  no  grief?  Heaven  forbid  !  When  a 
bard  or  wildered  minstrel  writes  so,  best  accept  his  own  confession, 
tliat  he  is  losing  his  head.  On  tlie  day  of  her  entrance  into  London 
wiio  looked  more  bright  and  happy  than  the  Princess  ?  On  the 
day  of  the  marriage,  the  fair  foce  wore  its  marks  of  care  already, 
and  lookeil  out  quite  grave,  and  frightened  almost,  under  the  wreatlis 
and  lace  and  orange-flowers.  Would  you  have  had  her  feel  no 
tremor]  A  maiden  on  the  britlegroom's  threshold,  a  Princess  led 
up  to  the  steps  of  a  throne  ?  I  think  her  pallor  and  doubt  became 
her  as  well  as  her  smiles.  That,  I  can  tell  you,  was  oti7'  vote  who 
sate  in  X  compartment,  let  us  say,  in  the  nave  of  Saint  George's 
Chapel  at  Windsor,  and  saw  a  part  of  one  of  the  brightest  ceremonies 
ever  performed  there. 

My  dear  cousin  Mary,  you  have  an  account  of  tlie  dresses ;  and 
I  promise  you  tliere  were  iirinccsses  besides  the  bride  wliom  it  did 
the  eyes  good  to  Ijeliold.  Around  the  bride  sailed  a  bevy  of  young 
creatures  so  fair,  white,  and  graceful  that  I  thought  of  those  fairy- 
tale beauties  who  are  sometimes  i)rincesses,  and  sometimes  Avhite 
swans,  Tlie  Royal  Princesses  and  the  Royal  Kniglits  of  the  Garter 
swept  by  in  prodigious  robes  and  trains  of  pur])le  velvet — tliirty 
shillings  a  yard,  my  dear,  not  of  course  including  the  lining,  which, 


424  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

I  have  no  doubt,  was  of  the  richest  satin,  or  that  costly  "  miniver " 
which  we  used  to  read  about  in  poor  Jerrold's  writings.  The 
young  Princes  were  habited  in  kilts ;  and  by  the  side  of  the 
Princess  Royal  trotted  such  a  little  wee  solemn  Highlander !  He 
is  the  young  heir  and  chief  of  the  famous  clan  of  Brandenburg. 
His  eyrie  is  amongst  the  Eagles,  and  I  pray  no  harm  may  befall 
tlie  dear  little  chieftain. 

The  heralds  in  their  tabards  were  marvellous  to  behold,  and  a 
nod  from  Rouge  Croix  gave  me  the  keenest  gratification.  I  tried 
to  catch  Garter's  eye,  but  eitlier  I  couldn't  or  he  wouldn't.  In  his 
robes,  he  is  like  one  of  the  Tliree  Kings  in  old  missal  illuminations. 
Goldstick  in  waiting  is  even  more  splendid.  With  his  gold  rod 
and  robes  and  trappings  of  many  colours,  he  looks  like  a  Royal 
enchanter,  and  as  if  he  had  raised  up  all  this  scene  of  glamour  by 
a  wave  of  his  glittering  wand.  The  silver  trumpeters  wear  such 
quaint  caps,  and  behind  tlie  trumpeters  came  a  drum-bearer,  on 
whose  back  a  gold  laced  drummer  drubbed  his  marcli. 

When  the  silver  clarions  had  blown,  and  under  a  clear  chorus 
of  white-robed  children  chanting  round  the  organ,  the  noble  pro- 
cession passed  into  the  chapel,  and  was  hidden  from  our  sight  for 
a  while,  there  was  silence,  or  from  the  inner  chapel  ever  so  faint 
a  hum.  Then  hymns  arose,  and  in  the  lull  we  knew  that  prayers 
were  being  said,  and  the  sacred  rite  performed  which  joined  Albert 
Edward  to  Alexandra  his  wife.  I  am  sure  hearty  prayers  were 
offered  outside  the  gate  as  well  as  within  for  that  princely  young 
pair,  and  for  their  Mother  and  Queen.  The  peace,  the  freedom, 
the  happiness,  the  order  whicli  her  rule  guarantees,  are  part  of 
my  birthright  as  an  Englishman,  and  I  bless  God  for  ray  share. 
Where  else  shall  I  find  such  liberty  of  action,  thought,  speech,  or 
laws  which  protect  me  so  well?  Her  part  of  her  compact  with 
her  people,  what  sovereign  ever  better  performed?  If  ours  sits 
apart  from  the  festivities  of  the  day,  it  is  because  she  suffers  from 
a  grief  so  recent  that  the  loyal  heart  cannot  master  it  as  yet,  and 
remains  treu  und  fest  to  a  beloved  memory.  A  part  of  the  music 
wliich  celebrates  the  day's  service  was  composed  by  the  husband 
who  is  gone  to  the  place  where  the  just  and  pure  of  life  meet  the 
reward  promised  by  the  Father  of  all  of  us  to  good  and  faithful 
servants  who  have  done  well  here  below.  As  this  one  gives  in 
his  account,  surely  we  may  remember  how  the  Prince  was  the 
friend  of  all  peaceful  arts  and  learning ;  how  he  was  true  and  fast 
always  to  duty,  home,  honour ;  how,  through  a  life  of  complicated 
trials,  he  was  sagacious,  righteous,  active  and  self-denying.  And 
as  we  trace  in  the  young  faces  of  liis  many  children  the  father's 
features  and  likeness,  what  Englishman  will  not  pray  that  they 


ON    ALEXANDRINES  425 

may  liave  inherited  also  some  of  the  great  qualities  which  won  for 
the  Prince  Consort  the  love  and  resjiect  of  our  country  ? 

The  paj)ers  tell  us  how,  on  tlie  night  of  the  marriage  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  all  over  England  and  Scotland  illuminations  were 
made,  the  poor  and  children  were  feasted,  and  in  village  and  city 
thousands  of  kindly  schemes  were  devised  to  mark  the  national 
happiness  and  sympatliy.  "  The  bonfire  on  Coptpoint  at  Folke- 
stone was  seen  in  France,"  the  Telegraph  says,  "more  clearly  than 
even  the  French  marine  lights  could  be  seen  at  Folkestone."  Long 
may  the  fire  continue  to  T)urn !  Tliere  are  Euro])ean  coasts  (and 
inland  places)  where  the  libertj^  light  has  been  extinguished,  or  is 
so  low  that  you  can't  see  to  read  l)y  it — there  are  great  Atlantic 
sliores  where  it  flickers  and  smokes  very  gloomily.  Let  us  be 
thankfid  to  the  honest  guardians  of  ours,  and  for  the  kind  sky 
under  which  it  burns  bright  and  steady. 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH 


BEFORE  me  lies  a  coin  bearing  the  image  and  superscription  of 
King  George  the  Fourth,  and  of  the  nominal  value  of  two- 
and-sixpence.  But  an  official  friend  at  a  neighbouring  turnpike 
says  the  piece  is  hopelessly  bad ;  and  a  chemist  tested  it,  returning 
a  like  unftivourable  opinion.  A  cabman,  who  had  brought  me  from 
a  Club,  left  it  with  the  Club  porter,  appealing  to  tlie  gent  who  gave 
it  a  pore  cabby,  at  ever  so  much  o'clock  of  a  rainy  night,  which  he 
hoped  he  would  give  him  another.  I  have  taken  that  cabman  at 
liis  word.  He  has  been  provided  with  a  sound  coin.  The  bad  piece 
is  on  the  table  before  me,  and  shall  have  a  hole  drilled  througii  it, 
as  soon  as  this  essay  is  written,  by  a  loyal  subject  who  does  not 
desire  to  deface  the  Sovereign's  image,  but  to  protest  against  tlie 
rascal  who  has  taken  his  name  in  vain.  Fid.  Def.  indeed  !  Is 
this  what  you  call  defending  the  faith  1  You  dare  to  forge  your 
Sovereign's  name,  and  pass  your  scoundrel  pewter  as  his  silver  1  I 
wonder  who  you  are,  wretcli  and  most  consummate  trickster  1  This 
forgery  is  so  complete  that  even  now  I  am  deceived  by  it — I  can't 
see  the  difference  between  the  base  and  sterling  metal.  Perhaps 
this  piece  is  a  little  lighter; — I  don't  know.  A  little  softer: — is 
if?  I  have  not  bitten  it,  not  being  a  connoisseur  in  the  tasting  of 
pewter  or  silver.  I  take  the  word  of  three  honest  men,  though  it 
goes  against  me ;  and  though  I  have  given  two-and-sixpence  worth 
of  honest  consideration  for  the  countei-,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  im- 
plicate anybody  else  in  my  misfortune,  or  transfer  my  ill-luck  to  a 
deluded  neiglibour. 

I  say  the  imitation  is  so  curiously  successful,  the  stamping, 
milling  of  the  edges,  lettering,  and  so  forth,  are  so  neat,  that  even 
now,  when  my  eyes  are  open,  I  cannot  see  the  cheat.  How  did 
those  experts,  the  cabman,  and  pikeman,  and  tradesman,  come  to 
find  it  out  1  How  do  they  happen  to  be  more  familiar  with  pewter 
and  silver  than  I  am  1  You  see,  I  put  out  of  the  question  another 
point  which  I  might  argue  without  fear  of  defeat,  namely,  the 
cabman's  statement  that  I  gave  him  this  bad  piece  of  money. 
Suppose  every  cabman  who  took  a  shilling  fare  were  to  drive  away 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH  427 

and  return  presently  with  a  bad  coin  and  an  assertion  that  I  had 
given  it  to  him  !  This  would  be  absurd  and  mischievous ;  an 
encouragement  of  vice  amongst  men  who  already  are  subject  to 
temptations.  Being  homo,  I  think  if  I  were  a  cabman  myself, 
I  might  sometimes  stretch  a  furlong  or  two  in  my  calculation  ot 
distance.  But  don't  come  twice,  my  man,  and  tell  me  I  have  given 
you  a  bad  half-crown.  No,  no  !  I  have  paid  once  like  a  gentle- 
man, and  once  is  enough.  For  instance,  during  the  Exhibition  time 
I  was  stopped  by  an  old  countrywoman  in  black,  with  a  huge 
umbrella,  who,  bursting  into  tears,  said  to  me,  "  Master,  be  this 
the  way  to  Harlow,  in  Essex  1 "  "  This  the  way  to  Harlow  1  Tliis 
is  the  way  to  Exeter,  my  good  lady,  and  you  will  arrive  there  if 
you  walk  about  170  miles  in  your  present  direction,"  I  answered 
courteously,  replying  to  the  old  creature.  Then  she  fell  a-sobbing 
as  though  her  old  heart  would  break.  She  had  a  daughter  a-dying 
at  Harlow.  She  had  walked  already  "vifty-dree  mile  that  day." 
Tears  stopped  the  rest  of  her  discourse,  so  artless,  genuine,  and 
abundant  that — I  own  the  truth — I  gave  her,  in  I  believe  genuine 
silver,  a  piece  of  the  exact  size  of  that  coin  which  forms  the  subject 
of  this  essay.  Well.  About  a  month  since,  near  to  the  very  spot 
where  I  had  met  my  old  woman,  I  was  accosted  by  a  person  in 
black,  a  person  in  a  large  draggled  cap,  a  person  with  a  huge 
umbrella,  who  was  beginning,  "  I  say.  Master,  can  you  tell  me  if 

this  be  the  way   to  Har "  but  here  she  stopped.     Her  eyes 

goggled  wildly.  She  started  from  me,  as  Macbeth  turned  from 
Macduff.  She  would  not  engage  with  me.  It  was  my  old  friend 
of  Harlow,  in  Essex.  I  daresay  she  has  informed  many  other  peojile 
of  her  daughter's  illness,  and  her  anxiety  to  be  put  upon  the  right 
way  to  Harlow.  Not  long  since  a  very  gentlemanlike  man.  Major 
Delamere  let  us  call  him  (I  like  the  title  of  Major  very  much), 
requested  to  see  me,  named  a  dead  gentleman  who  he  said  had 
been  our  mutual  friend,  and  on  the  strengtli  of  this  mutual  acquaint- 
ance, begged  me  to  cash  his  cheque  for  five  pounds  ! 

It  is  these  things,  my  dear  sir,  which  serve  to  make  a  man 
cynical.  I  do  conscientiously  believe  that  had  I  cashed  the  Major's 
cheque  there  would  have  been  a  difficulty  about  i)ayment  on  the 
part  of  the  respected  Imnkers  on  whom  he  drew.  On  your  honour 
and  conscience,  do  you  think  that  old  widow  who  was  walking  from 
Tunbridgc  Wells  to  Harlow  had  a  daugliter  ill,  and  was  an  honest 
woman  at  all  1  The  daughter  couldn't  always,  you  see,  be  being 
ill,  and  her  mother  on  her  way  to  her  dear  child  through  Hyde 
Park.  In  the  same  way  some  habitual  sneerers  may  be  inclined  to 
hint  that  the  cabman's  stoiy  was  an  invention — or  at  any  rate, 
choose  to  ride  oft"  (so  to  speak)  on  the  doubt.     No.     My  opinion, 


428  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

I  own,  is  iinfevourable  as  regards  the  widow  from  Tiiiibridge  Wells, 
and  Major  Delainere ;  but,  believing  the  cabman  was  honest,  I  am 
glad  to  think  he  was  not  injured  by  the  reader's  most  humble 
servant. 

What  a  queer  exciting  life  this  rogue's  march  must  be :  this 
attempt  of  the  bad  half-crowns  to  get  into  circulation !  Had  my 
distinguished  friend  the  Major  knocked  at  many  doors  that  morning 
before  operating  on  mine  1  The  sport  must  be  something  akin  to 
the  pleasure  of  tiger  or  elephant  hunting.  Wliat  ingenuity  the 
sportsman  must  have  in  tracing  his  prey— what  daring  and  caution 
in  coming  upon  him  !  What  coolness  in  facing  the  angry  animal 
(for,  after  all,  a  man  on  whom  you  draw  a  cheque  a  bout  2wrtant 
Avill  be  angry).  What  a  deli(;ious  thrill  of  triumph,  if  you  can 
bring  him  down  !  If  I  have  money  at  the  banker's,  and  draw  for 
a  portion  of  it  over  the  counter,  that  is  mere  prose — any  dolt  can 
do  that.  But,  having  no  balance,  say  I  drive  up  in  a  cab,  present 
a  cheque  at  Coutts's,  and,  receiving  the  amount,  drive  off?  What 
a  glorious  morning's  sport  that  has  been  !  How  superior  in  excite- 
ment to  the  common  transactions  of  every -day  life  !  .  .  .  I  must 
tell  a  story ;  it  is  against  myself,  I  know,  but  it  will  out,  and 
perhaps  my  mind  will  be  the  easier. 

More  than  twenty  years  ago,  in  an  island  remarkable  for  its 
verdure,  I  met  four  or  five  times  one  of  the  most  agreeable  com- 
panions with  whom  I  have  passed  a  night.  I  heard  that  evil  times 
had  come  upon  this  gentleman ;  and,  overtaking  him  in  a  road  near 
my  own  house  one  evening,  I  asked  him  to  come  home  to  dinner. 
In  two  days  he  was  at  my  door  again.  At  breakfast-time  was  this 
second  appearance.  He  was  in  a  cab  (of  course  he  was  in  a  cab ; 
they  always  are,  these  unfortunate,  these  courageous  men).  To 
deny  myself  was  absurd.  My  friend  could  see  me  over  the  j^arlour 
blinds,  surrounded  by  my  family,  and  cheerfully  partaking  of  the 
morning  meal.  Might  he  have  a  word  with  me?  and  can  you 
imagine  its  purport  ?  By  the  most  provoking  delay,  his  uncle  the 
admiral  not  being  able  to  come  to  town  till  Friday — would  I  cash 
him  a  cheque?  I  need  not  say  it  would  be  paid  on  Saturday 
without  fail.  I  tell  you  that  man  went  away  with  money  in  his 
pocket,  and  I  regret  to  add  that  his  gallant  relative  has  not  come 
to  tou'7i  yet  ! 

Laying  down  the  pen,  and  sinking  back  in  my  chair,  here, 
perhaps,  I  fall  into  a  five  minutes'  reverie,  and  think  of  one,  two, 
three,  half-a-dozen  cases  in  whicli  I  have  been  content  to  accept  that 
sham  promissory  coin  in  return  for  sterling  money  advanced.  Not  a 
reader,  whatever  his  age,  but  could  tell  a  like  story.  I  vow  and 
believe  there  are  men  of  fifty,  who  will  diue  well  to-day,  who  have 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH  429 

not  paid  their  school  debts  yet,  and  who  have  not  taken  up  their 
long-protested  promises  to  pay.  Tom,  Dick,  Harry,  my  boys,  I 
owe  you  no  grudge,  and  rather  relish  that  wince  with  wliich  you 
will  read  these  meek  lines  and  say,  "  He  means  me."  Poor  Jack 
in  Hades  !  Do  you  remember  a  certain  pecuniary  transaction,  and  a 
little  sum  of  money  you  borrowed  "  until  the  meeting  of  Parliament  "  1 
Parliament  met  often  in  your  lifetime :  Parliament  has  met  since  : 
but  I  think  I  should  scarce  be  more  surprised  if  your  ghost  glided 
into  the  room  now,  and  laid  down  the  amount  of  our  little  account, 
than  I  should  have  been  if  you  had  paid  me  in  your  lifetime  with 
the  actual  acceptances  of  the  Bank  of  England.  You  asked  to 
borrow,  but  you  never  intended  to  pay.  I  would  as  soon  have 
believed  that  a  jiromissory  note  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  (accepted  by 
Messrs.  Bardolph  and  Nym,  and  payable  in  Aldgate),  would  be  as 
sure  to  find  payment,  as  that  note  of  the  departed — nay,  lamented 
—Jack  Thriftless. 

He  who  borrows,  meaning  to  pay,  is  quite  a  different  person 
from  tlie  individual  here  described.  Many— most,  I  ho])e — took 
Jack's  promise  for  what  it  was  worth — and  quite  well  knew  tliat 
when  he  said,  "  Lend  me,"  he  meant,  "  Give  me  "  twenty  pounds. 
"  Give  me  change  for  this  half-crown,"  said  Jack ;  "  I  know  it's  a 
pewter  piece ; "  and  you  gave  him  the  change  in  honest  silver,  and 
pocketed  the  counterfeit  gravely. 

What  a  (pieer  consciousness  that  must  l)e  wdiich  accompanies 
such  a  man  in  his  sleeping,  in  his  waking,  in  his  walk  through  life, 
by  his  fireside  with  his  children  round  him.  "  For  what  we  arc 
going  to  receive,"  &c. — he  says  grace  before  his  dinner.  "  My 
dears  !  Shall  T  help  you  to  some  mutton  ?  I  robbed  the  butcher 
of  the  meat.  I  don't  intend  to  pay  him.  Johnson,  my  boy,  a  glass 
of  champagne  ?  Very  good,  isn't  it  ?  Not  too  sweet.  Forty-six. 
I  get  it  from  So-and-so,  whom  I  intend  to  cheat."  As  eagles  go 
forth  and  bring  home  to  their  eaglets  the  lamb  or  the  pavid  kid, 
I  say  there  are  men  who  live  and  victual  their  nests  by  plundei. 
We  all  know  highway  robbers  in  white  neckcloths,  domestic  bandits, 
marauders,  passers  of  bad  coin.  What  was  yonder  cheque  which 
Major  Delamere  proposed  I  sliould  cash  but  a  piece  of  bad  money  ? 
What  was  Jack  Thriftless's  promise  to  pay  1  Having  got  his  booty, 
I  fancy  Jack  or  the  Major  returning  home,  and  wife  and  children 
gathering  round  about  him.  Poor  wife  and  children  !  They  respect 
papa  very  likely.  They  don't  know  he  is  false  coin.  Maybe  the 
wife  has  a  dreadful  inkling  of  the  truth,  and,  sickening,  tries  to  hide 
it  from  the  daughters  and  sons.  Maybe  she  is  an  accomplice  :  her- 
self a  brazen  forgery.  If  Turpin  and  Jack  Sheppard  were  married, 
very  likely  Mesdames  Sheppard  and  Turpin  did  not  know,  at  first, 


430  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

what  their  husbands'  real  profession  was,  and  fancied,  when  the 
men  left  home  in  the  morning,  they  only  went  away  to  fiJlow  some 
regular  and  honourable  business.  Then  a  suspicion  of  the  trutli 
may  have  come  :  then  a  dreadful  revelation  ;  and  presently  we  have 
the  guilty  pair  robbing  together,  or  passing  forged  money  each  on 
his  own  account.  You  know  Doctor  Dodd'?  I  wonder  whether 
his  wife  knows  that  he  is  a  forger  and  scoundrel  Has  she  had 
any  of  the  plunder,  think  you,  and  were  the  darling  children's  new 
dresses  bought  with  it  ?  The  Doctor's  sermon  last  Sunday  was 
certainly  charming,  and  we  all  cried.  Ah,  my  poor  Dodd  !  Whilst 
he  is  preaching  most  beautifully,  pocket-liandkerchief  in  hand,  he  is 
peering  over  the  pulpit  cushions,  looking  out  piteously  for  Messrs. 
Peaclium  and  Lockit  from  the  police-office.  By  Doctor  Dodd  you 
understand  I  would  typify  the  rogue  of  respectable  exterior,  not 
committed  to  gaol  yet,  but  not  undiscovered.  We  all  know  one  or 
two  such.  This  very  sermon  perhaps  will  be  read  by  some,  or  more 
likely — for  depend  upon  it,  your  solemn  hypocrite  scoundrels  don't 
care  much  for  light  literature — more  likely,  I  say,  this  discourse 
will  be  read  by  some  of  their  wives,  who  think,  "  Ah,  mercy  !  does 
that  horrible  cynical  wretch  know  how  my  poor  husband  blacked 
ray  eye,  or  abstracted  mamma's  silver  teapot,  or  forced  me  to  write 
So-and-so's  name  on  that  piece  of  stamped  paper,  or  what  noti' 
My  good  creature,  I  am  not  angry  with  yoii.  If  your  husband  has 
broken  your  nose,  you  will  vow  that  he  had  authority  over  your 
person,  and  a  right  to  demolish  any  part  of  it :  if  he  has  conveyed 
away  your  mamma's  teapot,  you  will  say  that  she  gave  it  to  him  at 
your  marriage,  and  it  was  very  ugly,  and  what  not"?  if  he  takes 
your  aunt's  watch,  and  you  love  him,  you  will  carry  it  ere  long  to 
the  pawnbroker's,  and  perjure  yourself — oh,  how  you  will  perjure 
yourself— in  the  witness-box !  I  know  this  is  a  degrading  view  of 
woman's  noble  nature,  her  exalted  mission,  and  so  forth,  and  so 
forth.  I  know  you  will  say  this  is  bad  morality.  Is  it  1  Do  you, 
or  do  you  not,  expect  your  womankind  to  stick  by  you  for  better  or 
for  worse  1  Say  I  have  committed  a  forgery,  and  the  officers  come 
in  search  of  me,  is  my  wife,  Mrs.  Dodd,  to  show  them  into  the 
dining-room  and  say,  "  Pray  step  in,  gentlemen  !  My  husband  has 
just  come  home  from  church.  That  bill  with  my  Lord  Chester- 
field's acceptance,  I  am  bovmd  to  own,  was  never  written  by  his 
Lordship,  and  the  signature  is  in  the  Doctor's  handwriting."  I  say, 
would  any  man  of  sense  or  honour,  or  fine  feeling,  praise  his  wife 
for  telling  the  truth  under  such  circumstances  ?  Suppose  she  made 
a  fine  grimace,  and  said,  "Most  painful  as  my  position  is,  most 
deeply  as  I  feel  for  my  William,  yet  truth  must  prevail,  and  I 
deeply  lament  to  state  that  the  beloved  partner  of  my  life  did 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH  431 

commit  tlie  flagitiou.s  act  witli  which  lie  is  charged,  and  is  at  this 
present  moment  located  in  tlie  two-pair  back,  up  the  chimney, 
whither  it  is  my  duty  to  lead  you."  Why,  even  Dodd  himself,  who 
was  one  of  the  greatest  humbugs  who  ever  lived,  would  not  have 
had  the  face  to  say  that  he  approved  of  his  wife  telling  the  truth 
in  such  a  case.  Would  you  have  had  Flora  Ma(;donald  beckon  the 
officers,  saying,  "Tliis  way,  gentlemen!  You  will  find  the  Young 
Chevalier  asleej)  in  that  cavern."  Or  don't  you  prefer  her  to  be 
splendide  mendax,  and  ready  at  all  risks  to  save  him''?  If  ever  I 
lead  a  rebellion,  and  my  women  betray  me,  may  I  be  hanged  but  I 
will  not  forgive  them  :  and  if  ever  I  steal  a  teapot,  and  my  women 
don't  stand  u])  for  me,  pass  the  article  under  their  shawls,  whisk 
down  the  street  with  it,  outbluster  the  policeman,  and  utter  any 
amount  of  fibs  before  Mr.  Beak,  those  beings  are  not  what  I  take 
them  to  be,  and — for  a  fortune — I  won't  give  them  so  much  as  a 
bad  lialf-crown. 

Is  conscious  guilt  a  source  of  unmixed  pain  to  the  bosom  which 
liarbours  it?  Has  not  your  criminal,  on  the  contrary,  an  excite- 
ment, an  enjoyment  within  quite  unknown  to  you  and  me  who 
never  did  anything  wrong  in  our  lives'?  The  housebreaker  must 
snatch  a  fearful  joy  as  he  walks  unchallenged  by  the  policeman 
with  his  sack  full  of  spoons  and  tankards.  Do  not  cracksmen, 
when  assembled  together,  entertain  themselves  with  stories  of 
glorious  old  burglaries  which  they  or  bygone  heroes  have  com- 
mitted'? But  that  my  age  is  mature  and  my  habits  formed,  I 
should  really  just  like  to  try  a  little  criminality.  Fancy  passing 
a  forged  bill  to  your  banker :  calling  on  a  friend  and  sweeping  his 
sideboard  of  plate,  his  hall  of  umbrellas  and  coats ;  and  then  going 
home  to  dress  for  dinner,  say — and  to  meet  a  bishop,  a  judge,  and 
a  police  magistrate  or  so,  and  talk  more  morally  than  any  man  at 
table  !  How  I  should  (chuckle  (as  my  host's  spoons  clinked  softly 
in  my  pocket)  whilst  I  M-as  uttering  some  noble  speech  about  virtue, 
duty,  charity  !  I  wonder  do  we  meet  garotters  in  society  ?  In  an 
average  tea-party,  now,  how  many  returned  convicts  are  there '? 
Does  John  Footman,  when  he  asks  permission  to  go  and  spend  the 
evening  with  some  friends,  pass  his  time  in  thuggee ;  waylay  and 
strangle  an  old  gentleman  or  tw^o ;  let  himself  into  your  house,  with 
the  house-key  of  course,  and  appear  as  usual  with  the  shaving-water 
when  you  ring  your  bell  in  the  morning  1  The  very  possibility  of 
such  a  suspicion  invests  John  with  a  new  and  romantic  interest  in 
my  mind.  Behind  the  grave  politeness  of  his  countenance  I  try 
and  read  the  lurking  treason.  Full  of  this  ])leasing  subject,  I  have 
been  talking  thief-stories  with  a  neighbour.  The  neiglibour  tells 
me  how  some  friends  of  hers  used  to  keep  a  jewel-box  under  a  bed 


4S2  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

in  their  room ;  and,  going  into  the  room,  they  thought  they  heard 
a  noise  under  tlie  bed.  They  had  the  courage  to  look.  The  cook 
was  under  the  bed— under  the  bed  with  the  jewel-box.  Of  course 
she  said  she  had  come  for  purposes  connected  with  her  business ; 
but  this  was  absurd.  A  cook  under  a  bed  is  not  there  for  pro- 
fessional purposes.  A  relation  of  mine  had  a  box  containing 
diamonds  under  her  bed,  which  diamonds  she  told  me  were  to  be 
mine.  Mine !  One  day,  at  dinner-time,  between  the  entries  and 
the  roast,  a  cab  drove  away  from  my  relative's  house  containing  the 
box  wherein  lay  tlie  diamonds.  Jolm  laid  the  dessert,  brought  the 
coflfee,  waited  all  the  evening — and  oh,  how  frightened  he  was  when 
he  came  to  learn  that  his  mistress's  box  had  been  conveyed  out  of 
her  own  room,  and  it  contained  diamonds^"  LaAV  bless  us,  did  it 
now  ] "  I  wonder  whether  John's  subsequent  career  has  been  pros- 
perous 1  Pei-haps  the  gentlemen  from  Bow  Street  were  all  in  the 
wrong  Avlien  they  agreed  in  suspecting  John  as  the  author  of  the 
robbery.  His  noble  nature  was  hurt  at  the  suspicion.  You  con- 
ceive he  Avould  not  like  to  remain  in  a  family  where  they  were  mean 
enough  to  suspect  him  of  stealing  a  jewel-box  out  of  a  bedroom — 
and  the  injured  man  and  my  relatives  soon  parted.  But,  inclining 
(with  my  usual  cynicism)  to  think  that  he  did  steal  the  valuables, 
tliink  of  his  life  for  the  month  or  two  whilst  he  still  remains  in  the 
service  !  He  shows  the  officers  over  the  house,  agrees  with  them 
tliat  tlie  coiq)  must  have  been  made  by  persons  familiar  with  it ; 
gives  them  every  assistance ;  pities  his  master  and  mistress  with  a 
manly  compassion ;  points  out  what  a  cruel  misfortune  it  is  to  him- 
self as  an  honest  man,  Avith  his  living  to  get  and  his  family  to 
provide  for,  that  this  suspicion  should  fall  on  him.  Finally,  he 
takes  leave  of  his  place,  with  a  deep  though  natural  melancholy 
that  he  had  ever  accepted  it.  What's  a  thousand  pounds  to  gentle- 
folks 1  A  loss  certainly,  but  they  will  live  as  Avell  without  the 
diamonds  as  with  them.  But  to  John  his  Hhhonour  was  worth 
more  than  diamonds,  his  Hhonour  Avas.  Whohever  is  to  give  him 
back  his  character?  Who  is  to  i)revent  hanyone  from  saying,  "Ho 
yes.  This  is  the  footman  which  was  in  the  family  where  the 
diamonds  was  stole  "  1  &c. 

I  wonder  has  John  prospered  in  life  subsequently?  If  he  is 
innocent,  he  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least.  The  interest  of  the 
case  lies  in  John's  behaviour  supposing  him  to  be  guilty.  Imagine 
the  smiling  fixce,  the  daily  service,  the  orderly  performance  of  duty, 
whilst  within  John  is  suffering  pangs  lest  discovery  should  overtake 
him.  Every  bell  of  the  door  which  he  is  obliged  to  open  may  bring 
a  police-officer.  The  accomplices  may  peach.  What  an  exciting 
life  John's  must  have  been  for  a  while.     And  now,  years  and  years 


ON  A  MEDAL  OF  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH  433 

after,  when  pursuit  lias  long  ceased,  and  detection  is  impossible, 
does  he  over  revert  to  tlie  little  transaction  1  Is  it  possible  those 
diamonds  cost  a  thousand  i)ounds  1  "What  a  rogue  the  fence  nnist 
have  been  avIio  only  gave  him  so  and  so  !  And  I  pleasingly  picture 
to  myself  an  old  ex-footman  and  an  ancient  receiver  of  stolen  goods 
meeting  and  talking  over  this  matter,  Avhich  dates  from  times  so 
early  that  her  present  Majesty's  fair  image  cor.ld  only  just  have 
begun  to  be  coined  or  forged. 

I  choose  to  take  John  at  the  time  Avhcn  his  little  jteccadillo  is 
suspected,  i)erhaps,  but  -when  there  is  no  specific  charge  of  robliery 
against  him.  He  is  not  yet  convicted  :  he  is  not  even  on  his  trial  ; 
how  then  can  we  venture  to  say  he  is  guilty  1  Now  think  what 
scores  of  men  and  women  Avalk  the  world  in  a  like  predicament ; 
and  what  false  coin  passes  current !  Pinchbeck  strives  to  pass  oft" 
his  history  as  sound  coin.  He  knows  it  is  only  base  metal,  washed 
over  with  a  thin  varnish  of  learning.  Poluphloisbos  puts  his 
sermons  in  circulation  :  sounding  brass,  lacquered  over  with  white 
metal,  and  marked  with  the  stamp  and  image  of  piety.  What  say 
you  to  Drawcansir's  i-e|)utation  as  a  military  commander?  to  Tibbs's 
pretensions  to  be  a  fine  gentleman  1  to  Sapjihira's  claims  as  a 
poetess,  or  Rodoessa's  as  a  beauty  1  His  bravery,  his  piety,  high 
birth,  genius,  beauty — each  of  tliese  deceivers  would  palm  his  false- 
hood on  us,  and  have  us  accept  his  forgeries  as  sterling  coin.  And 
we  talk  here,  please  to  observe,  of  weaknesses  rather  than  crimes. 
Some  of  us  have  more  serious  things  to  hide  than  a  yellow  cheek 
behind  a  raddle  of  rouge,  or  a  white  jioll  under  a  wig  of  jetty  curls. 
You  know,  neighbour,  tliere  are  not  only  false  teeth  in  this  wurld, 
but  false  tongues  :  and  some  make  up  a  bust  and  an  apj)earance  of 
strength  with  padding,  cotton,  and  what  not"?  while  another  kind 
of  artist  tries  to  take  you  in  by  wearing  under  his  waistcoat,  and 
perpetually  thumping,  an  immense  sham  heart.  Dear  sir,  may 
yours  and  mine  be  found,  at  the  right  time,  of  the  proper  size  and 
in  the  right  place. 

And  what  has  this  to  do  with  lialf-crowns,  good  or  bad  ?  Ah, 
friend  !  may  our  coin,  battered,  and  clipped,  and  defoccd  though  it 
be,  be  proved  to  be  Sterling  Silver  on  the  day  of  the  Great  Assay  1 


"STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER" 


BEFORE  the  Duke  of  York's  column,  and  between  the  "  Athe- 
nteum  "  and  "  United  Service  "  Chibs,  I  have  seen  more  than 
once,  on  the  esplanade,  a  preacher  holding  forth  to  a  little 
congregation  of  badauds  and  street-boys,  whom  he  entertains  with  a 
discourse  on  the  crimes  of  a  rapacious  aristocracy,  or  warns  of  the 
imminent  peril  of  their  own  souls.  Sometimes  this  orator  is  made 
to  "move  on"  by  brutal  policemen.  Sometimes,  on  a  Sunday,  he 
points  to  a  white  head  or  two  visible  in  the  windows  of  the  Clubs 
to  the  right  and  left  of  him,  and  volunteers  a  statement  that  those 
(piiet  and  elderly  Sabbath-breakers  will  very  soon  be  called  from 
this  world  to  another,  where  their  lot  will  by  no  means  be  so 
comfortable  as  that  whicli  the  reprobates  enjoy  here,  in  their  arm- 
chairs by  their  snug  fires. 

At  the  end  of  last  month,  had  I  been  a  Pall  Mall  preacher,  I 
would  have  liked  to  send  a  whip  round  to  all  the  Clubs  in  St. 
James's,  and  convoke  the  few  members  remaining  in  London  to 
hear  a  discourse  sub  Dio  on  a  text  from  the  Observer  newspaper. 
I  would  have  taken  my  i)ost  under  tlie  statue  of  Fame,  say,  where 
she  stands  distributing  wreaths  to  the  three  Crimean  Guardsmen. 
(The  crossing-sweeper  does  not  obstruct  the  path,  and  I  suppose  is 
away  at  his  villa  on  Sundays.)  And,  when  the  congregation  was 
pretty  quiet,  I  would  have  begun  : — 

In  the  Observer  of  the  27th  September  1863,  in  the  fifth  page 
and  the  fourth  column,  it  is  thus  written  : — 

"  The  codicil  appended  to  the  will  of  the  late  Lord  Clyde, 
executed  at  Chatham,  and  bearing  the  signature  of  Clyde,  F.M.,  is 
written,  strange  to  say,  on  a  sheet  of  paper  bearing  the  'Athencetim 
Club '  mark." 

What  the  codicil  is,  my  dear  brethren,  it  is  not  our  business  to 
inquire.  It  conveys  a  benefaction  to  a  faithful  and  attached  friend 
of  the  good  Field-Marslial.  The  gift  may  be  a  lakh  of  rupees,  or  it 
may  be  a  house  and  its  contents — furniture,  plate,  and  wine-cellar. 
My  friends,  I  know  the  wine-merchant,  and,  for  the  sake  of  the 
legatee,  hope  heartily  that  the  stock  is  large. 


"STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER"   435 

Am  I  wrong,  dear  brethren,  in  siiijjju.sing  that  you  expect  a 
preacher  to  say  a  seasonable  word  on  death  here"?  If  you  ([on't,  I 
fear  you  are  but  little  familiar  with  the  habits  of  i)reafhers,  and  are 
but  lax  hearers  of  sermons.  AVe  miglit  contrast  the  vault  where 
the  warrior's  remains  lie  slirouded  and  coffined,  Avith  that  in  which 
his  worldly  provision  of  wine  is  stowed  away.  Spain  and  Portugal 
and  France — all  the  lands  which  sujjplied  his  store — as  hardy  and 
obedient  subaltern,  as  resolute  captain,  as  colonel  daring  but  prudent 
— he  has  visited  the  fields  of  all.  In  India  and  China  he  marches 
always  unconquered ;  or  at  the  head  of  liis  dauntless  Highland 
brigade  he  treads  the  Crimean  snow ;  or  he  rides  from  conquest  to 
conquest  in  India  once  more ;  succouring  his  countrymen  in  the 
hour  of  their  utmost  need ;  smiting  down  the  scared  mutiny,  and 
trampling  out  the  embers  of  rebellion ;  at  the  head  of  an  heroic 
army,  a  consummate  chief  And  now  his  glorious  old  sword  is 
sheathed,  and  his  honours  are  won ;  and  he  has  bought  him  a 
house,  and  stored  it  witli  modest  cheer  for  his  friends  (the  good  old 
man  put  water  in  his  own  wine,  and  a  glass  or  two  sufficed  him) — 
behold  the  end  comes,  and  his  legatee  inherits  these  modest  posses- 
sions by  virtue  of  a  codicil  to  his  Lordship's  will,  written,  "  stranr/e 
to  say,  on  a  sheet  of  jK^jier  hearin;/  the  ^ Athenceuvi  Cluh^  mark." 

It  is  to  this  part  of  tlie  text,  my  brethren,  that  I  propose  to 
address  myself  particularly,  and  if  the  remarks  I  make  are  offensive 
to  any  of  you,  you  know  the  doors  of  our  meeting-house  are  open, 
and  you  can  walk  out  Avhen  you  will.  Around  us  are  magnificent 
halls  and  palaces  frequented  by  such  a  multitude  of  men  as  not 
even  the  Roman  Forum  assembled  together.  Yonder  are  the 
Martium  and  the  Palladium.  Next  to  the  Palladium  is  the  elegant 
Viatorium,  which  Barry  gracefully  stole  from  Rome.  By  its  side 
is  the  massive  Reformatorium  :  and  the — tlie  Ultratorium  rears  its 
granite  columns  beyond.  Extending  down  the  street  palace  after 
lialace  rises  magnificent,  and  under  tlieir  lofty  roofs  warriors  and 
lawyers,  merchants  and  nobles,  scholars  and  seamen,  the  Avealthy, 
the  poor,  the  busy,  tlie  idle  assemble.  Into  the  halls  built  down 
tliis  little  street  and  its  neighbourhood  the  priiici])al  men  of  all 
London  come  to  hear  or  imi)art  the  news  ;  and  the  affairs  of  the 
State  or  of  private  individuals,  the  quarrels  of  empires  or  of  authors, 
the  movements  of  the  Court,  or  the  splendid  vagaries  of  fashion, 
the  intrigues  of  statesmen  or  of  persons  of  another  sex  yet  more 
wily,  the  last  news  of  battles  in  the  great  occidental  continents, 
nay,  the  latest  betting  for  the  horse-races,  or  the  advent  of  a  dancer 
at  the  theatre — all  that  men  do  is  discussed  in  these  Pall  Mall 
agoraj,  where  we  of  London  daily  assemble. 

Now  among  so  many  talkers,  consider  how  many  false  report? 


436  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

must  fly  about :  in  such  multitudes  imagine  liuw  many  disappointed 
men  there  must  be ;  how  many  chatterboxes ;  how  many  feeble  and 
credulous  (whereof  I  mark  some  specimens  in  my  congregation) ; 
how  many  mean,  rancorous,  j)rone  to  believe  ill  of  their  betters, 
eager  to  find  fault ;  and  then,  my  brethren,  fancy  how  the  words 
of  my  text  must  have  been  read  and  received  in  Pall  Mall !  (I 
perceive  several  of  the  congregation  looking  most  uncomfortable. 
One  old  boy  with  a  dyed  moustache  turns  purple  in  the  face,  and 
struts  back  to  the  Martium  :  another,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder 
and  a  murmur  of  "  Rubbish,"  slinks  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
Togatorium,  and  the  preacher  continues.)  The  will  of  Field-Marshal 
Lord  Clyde — signed  at  Chatham,  mind,  where  his  Lordship  died — • 
is  written,  strange  to  say,  on  a  sheet  of  paper  bearing  the  "  Athe- 
naeum Club  "  mark  ! 

The  inference  is  obvious.  A  man  cannot  get  Athenaeum  paper 
except  at  the  "  Atlienfeum."  Such  paper  is  not  sold  at  Chatham, 
where  the  last  codicil  to  his  Lordship's  will  is  dated.  And  so  the 
painful  belief  is  forced  upon  us,  that  a  Peer,  a  Field-Marshal, 
wealthy,  respected,  illustrious,  could  pocket  paper  at  his  Club,  and 
carry  it  away  with  him  to  the  country.  One  fancies  the  hall-porter 
conscious  of  tlie  old  lord's  iniquity,  and  holding  down  his  head  as 
the  Marshal  passes  the  door.  What  is  that  roll  which  his  Lordship 
carries  ?  Is  it  his  Marshal's  baton  gloriously  won  ?  No ;  it  is  a 
roll  of  foolscap  conveyed  from  the  Club.  What  has  he  on  his 
breast,  under  his  great-coat  ?  Is  it  his  Star  of  India  ?  No  ;  it  is  a 
bundle  of  envelopes,  bearing  the  head  of  Minerva,  some  sealing-wax, 
and  a  half-score  of  pens. 

Let  us  imagine  liow  in  the  hall  of  one  or  other  of  these  Clubs 
this  strange  anecdote  will  be  discussed. 

"  Notorious  screw,"  says  Sneer.  "  The  poor  old  fellow's  avarice 
has  long  been  known." 

"  Suppose  he  wishes  to  imitate  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,"  says 
Simper. 

"  Habit  of  looting  contracted  in  India,  you  know ;  ain't  so  easy 
to  get  over,  you  know,"  says  Snigger. 

"  When  officers  dined  with  him  in  India,"  remarks  Solemn,  "  it 
was  notorious  that  the  spoons  were  all  of  a  different  pattern." 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  true.  Suppose  he  wrote  his  paper  at  the 
Club  1 "  interposes  Jones. 

"It  is  dated  at  Chatham,  my  good  man,"  says  Brown.  "A 
man  if  he  is  in  London  says  he  is  in  London.  A  man  if  he  is  in 
Rochester  says  he  is  in  Rochester.  Tliis  man  happens  to  forget 
that  he  is  using  the  Club  paper :  and  he  hapi)ens  to  be  fouTid  out : 
many  men  clonH  happen  to  be  founil  put.     I've  seen  literary  fellows 


•'STRANGE    TO    SAY,    ON    CLUB    PAPER"      437 

at  Clubs  writing  their  rubbi.sJiiiig  articles  ;  I  have  no  doubt  they 
take  away  reams  of  paper.  Tliey  crib  thoughts :  why  shouldn't 
they  crib  stationery  ?  One  of  your  literary  vagabonds  who  is 
capable  of  stabbing  a  reputation,  who  is  capable  of  telling  any 
monstrous  falsehood  to  su])i)ort  his  party,  is  surely  capable  of 
stealing  a  I'eani  of  paper," 

"  Well,  well,  we  have  all  our  weaknesses,"  sighs  Robinson. 
"  Seen  that  article,  Thompson,  in  the  Observer  about  Lord  Clyde 
and  the  Club  pajjcr  1  You'll  find  it  upstairs.  In  the  third  column 
of  the  fifth  page  towards  the  bottom  of  the  page.  I  suppose  he 
was  60  poor  h-e  couldn't  aff"ord  to  buy  a  quire  of  paper.  Hadn't 
fourpence  in  the  world.     Oh,  no  ! " 

"  And  they  want  to  get  up  a  testimonial  to  this  man's  memory 
— a  statue  or  something  !  "  cries  Jawkins.  "  A  man  who  wallows 
in  wealth  and  takes  paper  away  from  his  Club  !  I  don't  say  he  is 
not  brave.  Brutal  courage  most  men  have.  I  don't  say  he  was 
not  a  good  officer :  a  man  with  such  experience  must  have  been  a 
good  officer,  unless  he  was  a  born  fool.  But  to  think  of  this  man 
loaded  with  honours — though  of  a  low  origin — so  lost  to  self-respect 
as  actually  to  take  away  the  '  Athenseum  '  paper  !  These  parvenus, 
sir,  betray  their  origin — betray  tiieir  origin.  I  said  to  my  wife  this 
very  morning,  '  Mrs.  Jawkins,'  I  said,  '  there  is  talk  of  a  testimonial 
to  this  man.  I  will  not  give  one  shilling.  I  have  no  idea  of 
raising  statues  to  fellows  who  take  away  Club  paper.  No,  by 
George  !  I  have  not.  Why,  they  will  be  raising  statues  to  men 
who  take  Club  spoons  next !  Not  one  penny  of  my  money  shall 
they  have  ! ' " 

And  now,  if  you  please,  we  will  tell  the  real  story  which  has 
furnished  tliis  s(;andal  to  a  newspa])er,  this  tattle  to  Club  gossips 
and  loungers.  The  Field-Marshal,  wishing  to  make  a  further 
provision  for  a  friend,  informed  his  lawyer  what  he  desired  to  do. 
The  lawyer,  a  member  of  the  "Athenseum  Club,"  there  wrote  the 
draft  of  such  a  codicil  as  he  would  advise,  and  sent  the  paper  by 
the  post  to  Lord  Clyde  at  Chatham.  Lord  Clyde,  finding  the 
paper  perfectly  satisfactory,  signed  it  and  sent  it  back  :  and  hence 
we  have  the  story  of  "  the  codicil  bearing  the  signature  of  Clyde, 
F.M.,  and  written,  strange  to  say,  upon  paper  bearing  the  '  Athe- 
nseum Club '  mark." 

Here  I  have  been  imagining  a  dialogue  between  a  half-dozen 
gossips  such  as  congregate  round  a  Club  fireplace  of  an  afternoon. 
I  wonder  how  many  peoj)le  besides — whether  any  chance  reader  of 
tiiis  very  jiage  has  read  and  believed  this  story  about  tlie  good  old 
lord!  Have  the  country  i)apers  co[)ied  the  anecdote,  and  our  "own 
correspondents "  made  their  reinarks  on  it  1     If,  my  good  sir,  or 


4.38  ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS 

madam,  you  have  read  it  and  credited  it,  don't  you  own  to  a  little 
feeling  of  shame  and  sorrow,  now  that  the  trumi)ery  little  mystery 
is  cleared?  To  "the  new  inhabitant  of  light,"  passed  away  and 
out  of  reach  of  our  censure,  misrepresentation,  scandal,  dnlness, 
malice,  a  silly  falsehood  matters  nothing.  Censure  and  praise  are 
alike  to  him — 

'The  music  warbling  to  the  deafened  ear, 
The  incense  wasted  on  the  funeral  bier," 

the  pompous  eulogy  pronounced  over  the  gravestone,  or  the  lie  that 
slander  spits  on  it.  Faithfully  though  this  brave  old  chief  did  his 
duty,  honest  and  upright  tliough  his  life  was,  glorious  his  renown — 
you  see  he  could  write  at  Chatham  on  London  paper ;  you  see  men 
can  be  found  to  point  out  how  "  strange  "  his  behaviour  was. 

And  about  ourselves]  My  good  people,  do  you  by  chance 
know  any  man  or  woman  who  has  formed  unjust  conclusions 
regarding  his  neighbour?  Have  you  ever  found  yourself  willing, 
nay,  eager  to  believe  evil  of  some  man  whom  you  hate?  Wliom 
you  hate  because  he  is  successful,  and  you  are  not :  because  he  is 
rich,  and  you  are  poor :  because  he  dines  with  great  men  who 
don't  invite  you  :  because  he  wears  a  silk  gown,  and  yours  is  still 
stuff:  because  he  has  been  called  in  to  perform  the  operation, 
though  you  lived  close  by :  because  his  pictures  have  been  bought, 
and  yours  returned  home  unsold  :  because  he  fills  his  church,  and 
you  are  preaching  to  empty  pews?  If  your  rival  prospers,  have 
you  ever  felt  a  twinge  of  anger  ?  If  his  wife's  carriage  passes  you 
and  Mrs.  Tomkins,  who  are  in  a  cab,  don't  you  feel  that  tliose 
peojjle  are  giving  themselves  absurd  airs  of  importance?  If  he 
lives  with  great  people,  are  you  not  sure  he  is  a  sneak  ?  And  if 
you  ever  felt  envy  towards  another,  and  if  your  heart  has  ever  been 
black  towards  your  brother,  if  you  have  been  peevish  at  liis  success, 
pleased  to  hear  his  merit  depreciated,  and  eager  to  believe  all  that 
is  said  in  his  disfavour — my  good  sir,  as  you  yourself  contritely 
own  that  you  are  unjust,  jealous,  uncharitable,  so,  you  maybe  sure, 
some  men  are  uncharitable,  jealous,  and  unjust  regarding  yon. 

The  proofs  and  manuscript  of  this  little  sermon  have  just  come 
from  the  printer's,  and  as  I  look  at  the  writing,  I  perceive,  not 
without  a  smile,  that  one  or  two  of  the  pages  bear,  "  strange  to 
say,"  the  mark  of  a  Club  of  which  I  have  the  honour  to  be  a 
member.  Those  lines  quoted  above  are  from  some  noble  verses 
written  by  one  of  Mr.  Addison's  men,  Mr.  Tickell,  on  the  death 
(if  Cadogan,  who  was  amongst  the  most  prominent  "  of  Marl- 
borough's captains  and  Eugenio's  friends."     If  you  are  acquainted 


"STRANGE  TO  SAY,  ON  CLUB  PAPER"  439 

with  the  history  of  those  times,  you  have  read  how  Cadogaii 
had  his  feuds  and  hatreds  too,  as  Tickell's  patron  had  his,  as 
Cadogan's  great  chief  had  his.  "  The  Duke  of  Marlborough's 
character  has  been  so  variously  drawn "  (writes  a  famous  con- 
temporary of  the  Duke's),  "  that  it  is  hard  to  i)ronounce  on  either 
side  witliout  the  suspicion  of  flattery  or  detraction.  I  shall  say 
nothing  of  his  military  accomplishments,  which  the  opposite  re- 
ports of  his  friends  and  enemies  among  the  soldiers  have  rendered 
problematical.  Those  maligners  who  deny  him  personal  valoui-, 
seem  not  to  consider  that  tliis  accusation  is  cliarged  at  a  venture, 
since  the  person  of  a  general  is  too  seldom  exposed,  and  that  fear 
which  is  said  sometimes  to  have  disconcerted  him  before  ac-tion 
might  probably  be  more  for  his  army  than  liimself."  If  Swift 
could  hint  a  doubt  of  Marlborough's  courage,  what  wonder  that  i 
nameless  scribe  of  our  day  should  question  the  honour  of  Clyde  ] 


DENIS    DUVAL 


DENIS    DUVAL 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  FAMILY    TREE 

TO  plague  my  wife,  who  does  not  understand  pleasantries  in 
the  matter  of  pedigree,  I  once  drew  a  fine  family  tree  of  my 
ancestors,  with  Claude  Duval,  captain  and  highwayman, 
sus.  per  coll.  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  dangling  from  a  top 
branch.  But  this  is  only  my  joke  with  her  High  Mightiness  my 
wife,  and  his  Serene  Highness  my  son.  None  of  us  Duvals  have 
been  S'us2jer collated  to  my  knowledge.  As  a  boy,  I  have  tasted  a 
rope's  end  often  enough,  but  not  round  my  neck ;  and  the  persecu- 
tions endured  by  my  ancestors  in  France  for  our  Protestant  religion, 
wliich  we  early  received  and  steadily  maintained,  did  not  bring  death 
uj)on  us,  as  upon  many  of  our  faith,  but  only  fines  and  poverty,  and 
exile  from  our  native  country.  The  world  knows  how  the  bigotry 
of  Louis  XIV.  drove  many  families  out  of  France  into  England, 
who  have  become  trusty  and  loyal  subjects  of  the  British  Crow :.. 
Among  tlie  thousand  fugitives  were  my  grandfather  and  his  wife. 
They  settled  at  Winchelsea,  in  Sussex,  where  there  has  been  a 
French  church  ever  since  Queen  Bess's  time  and  the  dreadful  day 
of  Saint  Bartholomew,  Three  miles  oft",  at  Rye,  is  another  colony 
and  church  of  our  people :  another  fester  Biirg,  where,  under 
Britannia's  sheltering  buckler,  we  have  been  free  to  exercise  our 
fathers'  worship,  and  sing  the  scngs  of  our  Zion, 

My  grandfather  was  elder  and  precentor  of  the  Church  of 
Winchelsea,  tlie  pastor  being  Monsieur  Denis,  father  of  Rear- 
Aduiiral  Sir  Peter  Denis,  Baronet,  my  kind  and  best  patron.  He 
sailed  witli  Anson  in  the  famous  Centairion,  and  obtained  his 
first  promotion  through  that  great  seaman  :  and  of  course  you  will 
all  remember  that  it  was  Captain  Denis  who  brought  our  good 
Queen  Charlotte  to  England  (7tli  September  1761),  after  a  stormy 
passage  of  nine  days,  from  Stade.     As  a  child  I  was  taken  to  his 


444  DENIS    DUVAL 

house  in  Great  Ormond  Street,  Queen  Square,  London,  and  also  to 
the  Admiral's  country-seat,  Valence,  near  Westerham,  in  Kent, 
where  Colonel  Wolfe  lived,  ftxther  of  the  famous  General  James 
Wolfe,  the  glorious  conqueror  of  Quebec* 

My  father,  who  was  of  a  wandering  disposition,  happened,  to 
be  at  Dover  in  the  year  1761,  when  the  Commissioners  passed 
through,  who  were  on  their  way  to  sign  the  treaty  of  peace,  known 
as  the  Peace  of  Paris.  He  had  parted,  after  some  hot  words,  I 
believe,  from  his  mother,  who  was,  like  himself,  of  a  quick  temper, 
and  he  was  on  the  look-out  for  employment  when  Fate  threw  these 
gentlemen   in   his  way.      Mr.  Duval   spoke   English,   French,  and 

German,  his  parents  being  of  Alsace,  and  Mr.  having  need  of 

a  confidential  person  to  attend  him,  who  was  master  of  the  languages 
my  father  offered  himself,  and  was  accepted  mainly  through  the 
good  offices  of  Ca])tain  Denis,  our  patron,  whose  ship  was  then  in 
the  Downs.  Being  at  Paris,  father  must  needs  visit  Alsace,  our 
native  country,  and  having  scarce  one  guinea  to  rub  against  another, 
of  course  chose  to  fall  in  love  with  my  mother  and  marry  her  out 
of  hand.  Monsieur  mon  jm-e,  I  fear,  was  but  a  prodigal ;  but  he 
was  his  parents'  only  living  child,  and  when  he  came  home  to 
Winchelsea,  hungry  and  penniless,  with  a  wife  on  his  hand,  they 
killed  their  fattest  calf,  and  took  both  wanderers  in.  A  short  while 
after  her  marriage,  my  mother  inherited  some  property  from  her 
parents  in  France,  and  most  tenderly  nursed  my  grandmother 
through  a  long  illness,  in  which  the  good  lady  died.  Of  these 
matters  I  knew  nothing  personally,  being  at  the  time  a  child  two 
or  three  years  old ;  crying  and  sleeping,  drinking  and  eating,  grow- 
ing, and  having  my  infantile  ailments,  like  other  little  darlings. 

A  violent  woman  was  my  mother,  jealous,  hot,  and  domineering, 
but  generous  and  knowing  how  to  forgive.  I  fancy  my  papa  gave 
her  too  many  opportunities  of  exercising  this  virtue,  for,  during  his 
brief  life,  he  Avas  ever  in  scrapes  and  trouble.  He  met  with  an 
accident  when  fishing  off  the  French  coast,  and  was  brought  home 
and  died,  and  was  buried  at  Winchelsea :  but  the  cause  of  his 
death  I  never  knew  until  my  good  friend  Sir  Peter  Denis  told  me 
in  later  years,  when  I  had  come  to  have  troubles  of  my  own. 

I  was  born  on  the  same  day  with  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Duke  of  York,  viz.  the  13th  of  August  1763,  and  used  to  be 
called  the  Bishop  of  Osnaburg  by  the  boys  in  Winchelsea,  where 

*  I  remember  a  saying  of   G Aug  st-s   S-lw-n,    Esquire,    regarding 

the  General,  which  has  not  been  told,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  the  anecdotes.  A 
Macaroni  guardsman,  speaking  of  Mr.  Wolfe,  was  asked,  "Was  he  a  Jew? 
Wolfe  was  a  Jewish  name."  "Certainly,"  says  Mr.  S-lw-n,  "  Mr.  Wolfe  was 
the  Height  o/  Abraham," 


THE    FAMILY    TREE  445 

between  us  French  boys  and  the  English  boys  I  iiromise  you  there 
was  many  a  good  battle.  Besides  being  ancien  and  precentor  of 
the  French  church  at  Winclielsea,  grandfather  was  a  perruquier 
and  barber  by  trade ;  and,  if  you  must  know  it,  I  have  curled  and 
powdered  a  gentleman's  head  before  this,  and  taken  him  by  the 
nose  and  shaved  him.  I  do  not  brag  of  having  used  lather  and 
brush  :  but  what  is  the  use  of  disguising  anything?  Tout  se  srait, 
as  the  French  have  it,  and  a  great  deal  more  too.  There  is  Sir 
Humphrey  Howard,  who  served  with  me  second-lieutenant  in  the 
Jfeleager — he  says  he  comes  from  the  N — f-lk  Howards ;  but 
Ills  father  was  a  shoemaker,  and  we  always  called  him  Humphrey 
Snob  in  the  gunroom. 

In  France  very  few  wealthy  ladies  are  accustomed  to  nurse 
their  children,  and  the  little  ones  are  put  out  to  farmers'  wives 
and  healthy  nurses,  and  perhaps  better  cared  for  than  by  their  own 
meagre  mothers.  My  mother's  mother,  an  honest  farmer's  wife 
in  Lorraine  (for  I  am  the  first  gentleman  of  my  family,  and  chose 
my  motto  *  of  Fecimus  ipsi  not  with  pride,  but  witli  liumble 
thanks  for  my  good  fortune),  had  brought  up  Mademoiselle  Clarisse 
de  Viomesnil,  a  Lorraine  lady,  between  whom  and  her  foster-sister 
there  continued  a  tender  friendship  long  after  the  marriage  of  both. 
Mother  came  to  England,  the  wife  of  Monsieur  mon  papa ;  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Viomesnil  married  in  her  own  country.  She  was 
of  the  Protestant  branch  of  the  Viomesnil  family,  and  all  the  poorer 
in  consequence  of  her  parents'  fidelity  to  their  religion.  Other 
members  of  the  family  were  of  the  Catholic  religion,  and  held  in 
high  esteem  at  Versailles. 

Some  short  time  after  my  mother's  arrival  in  England,  she 
heard  that  her  dear  foster-sister  Clarisse  was  going  to  n^arry  a 
Protestant  gentleman  of  Lorraine,  Vicomte  de  Barr,  only  son  of 
M.  le  Comte  de  Saverne,  a  chamberlain  to  his  Polish  Majesty 
King  Stanislas,  father  of  the  French  Queen.  M.  de  Saverne,  on 
his  son's  marriage,  gave  up  to  the  Vicomte  de  Barr  his  house  at 
Saverne,  and  here  for  a  while  the  newly-married  couple  lived.  I 
do  not  say  the  young  couple,  for  the  Vicomte  de  Barr  was  five- 
and-twenty  years  older  than  his  wife,  who  was  but  eighteen  when 
her  parents  married  her.  As  my  mother's  eyes  were  very  weak, 
or,  to  say  truth,  she  was  not  very  skilful  in  reading,  it  used  to  be 
my  lot  as  a  boy  to  spell  out  my  Lady  Viscountess's  letters  to  her 
sceur  de  lait,  her  good  Ursule  :  and  many  a  smart  rap  with  the 
rolling-pin  have  I  had  over  my  noddle  from  Mother  as  I  did  my 

*  The  Admiral  insisted  on  taking:  or  on  a  bend  sal)le,  three  razors  displayed 
proper,  with  the  above  motto.  The  family  have  adopted  the  mother's  coat- 
of-ariBS, 


446  DENIS    DUYAL 

best  to  read.  It  was  a  word  and  a  lilnw  witli  Mother.  She  did 
not  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  cliihl,  and  that  I  supijose  is  the 
reason  why  I  am  so  well  grown — six  feet  two  in  my  stockings,  and 
fifteen  stone  four  last  Tuesday,  when  I  was  weighed  along  with  our 
pig.  Mem. — My  neighbour's  hams  at  Rose  Cottage  are  the  best 
in  all  Hampshire. 

I  was  so  young  that  I  could  not  understand  all  I  read.  But 
I  remember  Mother  used  to  growl  in  her  rough  way  (she  had  a 
grenadier  height  and  voice,  and  a  pretty  smart  pair  of  black 
whiskers  too) — my  mother  used  to  cry  out,  "  She  suffers — my 
Biche  is  imhappy — she  has  got  a  bad  husband.  He  is  a  brute. 
All  men  are  brutes."  And  witli  this  she  would  glare  at  grandpapa, 
who  was  a  very  humble  little  man,  and  trembled  before  his  bru, 
and  obeyed  her  most  obsequiously.  Then  Mother  would  vow  she 
would  go  home,  she  would  go  and  succour  her  Biche ;  but  who 
would  take  care  of  these  two  imbeciles  ?  meaning  me  and  my 
grandpapa.  Besides,  Madame  Duval  was  wanted  at  home.  She 
dressed  my  ladies'  heads,  with  very  great  taste,  in  the  French  way, 
and  could  shave,  frizz,  cut  luiir,  and  tie  a  queue  along  with  the 
best  barber  in  the  country.  Grandfather  and  the  apprentice  wove 
the  wigs ;  when  I  was  at  home,  I  was  too  young  for  that  work,  and 
was  taken  off  from  it,  and  sent  to  a  famous  good  school,  Pocock's 
grammar-school  at  Rye,  where  I  learned  to  speak  English  like  a 
Briton  born  as  I  am,  and  not  as  we  did  at  home,  where  we  used 
a  queer  Alsatian  jargon  of  French  and  German.  At  Pocock's  I  got 
a  little  smattering  of  Latin,  too,  and  plenty  of  fighting  for  the  first 
month  or  two.  I  remember  my  patron  coming  to  see  me  in  uniform, 
blue  and  white  laced  with  gold,  silk  stockings  and  white  breeches, 
and  two  of  his  officers  along  with  him.  "Where  is  Denis  DuvaH  " 
says  he,  peeping  into  our  schoolroom,  and  all  the  boys  looking 
round  with  wonder  at  the  great  gentleman.  Master  Denis  Duval 
was  standing  on  a  bench  at  that  very  moment  for  punishment, 
for  fighting,  I  suppose,  with  a  black  eye  as  big  as  an  omelette. 
"  Denis  would  do  very  well  if  he  would  keep  his  fist  off  other  boys' 
noses,"  says  the  master ;  and  the  Captain  gave  me  a  seven-shilling 
piece,  and  I  spent  it  all  but  twopence  before  the  night  was  over, 
I  remember.  Whilst  I  was  at  Pocock's,  I  boarded  with  Mr. 
Rudge,  a  tradesman,  who,  besides  being  a  grocer  at  Rye,  was  in 
the  seafaring  way,  and  part  owner  of  a  fishing-boat ;  and  he  took 
some  very  queer  _ffsh  in  his  nets,  as  you  shall  hear  soon.  He  was 
a  chief  man  among  the  Wesleyans,  and  I  attended  his  church  with 
him,  not  paying  much  attention  to  those  most  serious  and  sacred 
things  in  my  early  years,  when  I  was  a  thoughtless  boy,  caring  for 
uothing  but  lollipops,  hoops,  and  marbles. 


THE    FAMILY    TREE  447 

Captain  Denis  was  a  very  pleasant  lively  gentleman,  and  on 
this  day  he  asked  the  master,  Mr.  Coates,  what  was  the  Latin 
for  a  holiday,  and  hoped  Mr.  C.  would  give  one  to  his  boys.  Of 
course  we  sixty  boys  shouted  yes  to  that  proposal ;  and  as  for  me, 
Captain  Denis  cried  out,  "  Mr,  Coates,  I  />ress  this  fellow  with 
the  black  eye  hei'e,  and  intend  to  take  him  to  dine  with  me  at  the 
'  Star.' "  You  may  be  sui-e  I  skipped  off  my  bench,  and  followed 
my  patron.  He  and  his  two  officers  went  to  the  "  Star,"  and  after 
dinner  called  for  a  crown  bowl  of  punch,  and  tliough  I  would  drink 
none  of  it,  never  having  been  able  to  bear  the  taste  of  rum  or 
brandy,  I  was  glad  to  come  out  and  sit  with  the  g<;ntlemen,  who 
seemed  to  be  amused  with  my  childish  prattle.  Cai)tain  Denis 
asked  me  what  I  learned,  and  I  daresay  I  bragged  of  my  little 
learning  :  in  fact  I  remember  talking  in  a  pompous  way  about 
Corderius  and  Cornelius  Nepos ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  gave  myself 
very  grand  airs.  He  asked  whether  I  liked  Mr.  Rudge,  the  grocer 
with  whom  I  boarded.  I  did  not  like  him  much,  I  said ;  but  I 
hated  Miss  Rudge   and   Bevil  the   apprentice   most   because   they 

were  always- here  I  stopped.      "  But  there  is  no  use  in  telling 

tales  out  of  school,"  says  I.  "We  don't  do  that  at  Pocock's, 
we  don't." 

And  what  was  my  mother  going  to  make  of  me  1  T  said  I 
should  like  to  be  a  sailor,  but  a  gentleman  sailor,  and  fight  for 
King  George.  And  if  I  did  I  would  l)ring  all  my  prize-money 
home  to  Agnes,  that  is,  almost  all  of  it — only  keep  a  little  of 
it  for  myself 

"  And  so  you  like  the  sea,  and  go  out  sometimes  1 "  asks 
Mr.  Denis. 

Oil,  yes,  I  went  out  fisliing.  Mr.  Rudge  had  a  half  share  of  a 
boat  along  with  grandfather,  and  I  used  to  lielp  to  clean  her,  and 
was  taught  to  steer  her,  with  many  a  precious  slap  on  the  head 
if  I  got  her  in  the  wind ;  and  they  said  I  was  a  very  good  look-out. 
I  could  see  well,  and  remember  bluffs  and  headlands  and  so  forth  ; 
and  I  mentioned  several  places,  points  of  our  coasts,  ay,  and  the 
French  coast  too. 

"  And  what  do  you  fish  for  ? "  asks  the  Captain. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I'm  not  to  say  anything  about  that,  Mr.  Rudge  says  !  " 
on  which  tlie  gentlemen  roared  with  laughter.  They  knew  Master 
Rudge's  game,  though  I  in  my  innocence  did  not  understand  it. 

"  And  so  you  won't  have  a  drop  of  punch  1 "  asks  Captain 
Denis. 

"  No,  sir,  I  made  a  vow  I  would  not,  when  I  saw  Miss  Rudge 
so  queer." 

"  Miss  Rudge  is  often  queer,  is  she  1 " 


448  DENIS    DUVAL 

"Yes,  the  nasty  pig !  And  she  calls  names,  and  slips  down- 
stairs, and  knocks  the  cups  and  saucers  about,  and  fights  the  appren- 
tice, and — but  I  mustn't  say  anything  more.  I  never  tell  tales,  I 
don't !  " 

In  this  way  I  went  on  prattling  with  my  patron  and  his  friends, 
and  they  made  me  sing  them  a  song  in  French,  and  a  song  in 
German,  and  tliey  lauglied  and  seemed  amused  at  my  antics  and 
capers.  Captain  Denis  walked  home  with  me  to  our  lodgings,  and 
I  told  him  how  I  liked  Sunday  the  best  day  of  the  week — that  is, 
every  other  Sunday — because  I  went  away  quite  early,  and  walked 
three  miles  to  mother  and  grandfather  at  Winchelsea,  and  saw 
Agnes. 

And  who,  pray,  was  Agnes  ?  To-day  her  name  is  Agnes  Duval, 
and  she  sits  at  her  work-table  hard  by.  The  lot  of  my  life  has 
been  changed  by  knowing  her.  To  win  such  a  prize  in  life's  lottery 
is  given  but  to  very  very  few.  What  I  have  done  (of  any  wortli) 
has  been  done  in  trying  to  deserve  her.  I  might  have  remained, 
but  for  her,  in  my  humble  native  lot,  to  be  neither  honest  nor 
happy,  but  that  my  good  angel  yonder  succoured  me.  All  I  have 
I  owe  to  her :  but  I  pay  with  all  I  have,  and  what  creature  can 
do  more  1 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  HOUSE  OF  S  J  VERNE 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  SAVERNE  came  from  Alsace,  where 
her  laniily  occupied  a  much  higher  rank  than  that  hehl  by 
the  wortliy  Protestant  elder  from  ■whom  her  humble  servant 
is  descended.  Her  mother  was  a  Viomesnil,  lier  father  was  of  a 
noble  Alsatian  family,  Counts  of  Barr  and  Saverne.  The  old  Count 
de  Saverne  was  alive,  and  a  chamberlain  in  the  Court  of  his  Polish 
Majesty  good  King  Stanislas  at  Nanci,  when  his  son  the  Vicomte 
de  Barr,  a  man  alieady  advance<l  in  years,  brought  home  his  bloom- 
ing young  bi-ide  to  that  pretty  little  capital. 

The  Count  de  Saverne  was  a  brisk  and  cheery  old  gentleman, 
as  his  son  was  gloomy  and  severe.  The  Count's  hotel  at  Nanci  was 
one  of  the  gayest  of  the  little  Court.  His  Protestantism  was  by  no 
means  austere.  He  was  even  known  to  regret  that  there  were  no 
French  convents  for  noble  damsels  of  the  Protestant  confession,  as 
there  were  across  the  Rhine,  where  his  own  two  daughters  might  be 
bestowed  out  of  the  way.  Mesderaoiselles  de  Saverne  were  ungainly 
in  appearance,  fierce  and  sour  in  temper,  resembling,  in  these  par- 
ticulars, their  brother  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Barr. 

In  his  youth,  Monsieur  de  Barr  had  served  not  without  distinc- 
tion, being  engaged  against  Messieurs  the  English  at  Hastenbeck 
and  Laufeldt,  where  he  had  shown  both  courage  and  capacity.  His 
Protestantism  prevented  his  promotion  in  the  army.  He  left  it, 
steadfast  in  his  faith,  but  soured  in  his  temper.  He  did  not  care 
for  whist  or  music,  like  his  easy  old  father.  His  appearance  at  the 
Count's  little  suppers  was  as  cheerful  as  a  death's-head  at  a  feast. 
Monsieur  de  Barr  only  frequented  these  entertainments  to  give 
pleasure  to  his  young  wife,  who  pined  and  was  wretched  in  tlie 
solitary  family  mansion  of  Saverne,  where  the  Vicomte  took  up  his 
residence  when  first  mairied. 

He  was  of  an  awful  temper,  and  subject  to  storms  of  passion. 
Being  a  very  conscientious  man,  he  sutt'ered  extremely  after  one  of 
these  ebuJlitinns  of  rage.  Between  his  alternations  of  anger  and 
remorse,  his  life  was  a  sad  one ;  his  household  trembled  before  him, 
9,nd  especially  the  poor  little  wife  whom  he  had  br^iught  out  of  her 


450  DENIS    DUVAL 

quiet  country  village  to  be  the  victim  of  his  rage  and  repentances. 
More  tliaii  once  she  fled  to  the  old  Count  of  S;iverne  at  Nanci,  and 
the  kindly  selfish  old  gentleman  used  his  feeble  endeavours  to  protect 
his  poor  little  daughter-in-law.  Quickly  after  these  quarrels  letters 
would  arrive,  containing  vows  of  the  nn)st  abject  repentance  on  the 
Baron's  part.  These  matrimonial  campaigns  followed  a  regular 
course.  First  rose  the  outbreak  of  temper ;  then  the  lady's  flight 
ensued  to  papa-in-law  at  Nanci ;  then  came  letters  expressive  of 
grief;  then  the  repentant  criminal  himself  arrived,  whose  anguish  and 
cries  of  mea  culpa  were  more  insupportable  tlian  his  outbreaks  of 
rage.  After  a  iew  years,  Madame  de  Barr  lived  almost  entirely  with 
her  father-in-law  at  Nanci,  and  was  scarcely  seen  in  her  husband's 
gloomy  mansion  of  Saverne. 

For  some  years  no  child  was  born  of  this  most  unhappy  union. 
Just  when  poor  King  Stanislas  came  by  his  lamentable  death  (being 
burned  at  his  own  fire),  the  old  Count  de  Saverne  died,  and  his  son 
found  that  he  inherited  little  more  than  his  father's  name  and  title 
of  Saverne,  the  family  estate  being  greatly  impoverished  by  the  late 
Count's  extravagant  and  indolent  habits,  and  much  weighed  down 
by  the  portions  awarded  to  the  Demoiselles  de  Saverne,  the  elderly 
sisters  of  the  present  elderly  lofd. 

Tlie  town  house  at  Nanci  was  shut  up  for  a  while ;  and  the  new 
Lord  of  Saverne  retired  to  his  castle  with  his  sisters  and  his  wife. 
With  his  Catholic  neiglibours  the  stern  Protestant  gentleman  had 
little  communion ;  and  the  society  which  frequented  his  dull  house 
chiefly  consisted  of  Protestant  clergymen  who  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  Rhine.  Along  its  left  bank,  which  had  only  become 
French  territory  of  late  years,  the  French  and  German  languages 
were  spoken  indifferently ;  in  the  latter  language  Monsieur  de 
Saverne  was  called  the  Herr  von  Zabeni.  After  his  fixther's  death, 
Herr  von  Zabern  may  have  melted  a  little,  but  he  soon  became  as 
moody,  violent,  and  ill-conditioned  as  ever  the  Herr  von  Barr  had 
been.  Saverne  was  a  little  country  town,  with  the  crumbling  old 
Hotel  de  Saverne  in  the  centre  of  the  place,  and  a  straggling  street 
stretching  on  either  side.  Behind  the  house  were  melancholy  gardens, 
squared  and  clipped  after  the  ancient  French  fashion,  and,  beyond  the 
garden  wall,  some  fields  and  woods,  part  of  the  estate  of  the  Saverne 
family.  These  fields  and  woods  were  fringed  by  another  great  forest, 
which  had  once  been  the  property  of  the  house  of  Saverne,  but  had 
been  purchased  from  the  late  easy  proprietor  by  Messeigneurs  de 
Rohan,  Princes  of  the  Empire,  of  France,  and  the  Churcii,  Cardinals, 
and  Archbishops  of  Strasbourg,  between  whom  and  their  gloomy 
Protestant  neighbour  there  was  no  goodwill.  Not  only  questions 
of  faith  separated  them,  but  questions  of  chasse.     The  Count  de 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  451 

Saverne,  who  loved  shooting,  and  beat  liis  meagre  woods  for  game 
with  a  couple  of  lean  dogs,  and  a  fowling-piece  over  his  shoulder, 
sometimes  came  in  sight  of  the  grand  hunting-parties  of  Monseigneur 
the  Cardinal,  who  went  to  the  chase  like  a  Prince  as  he  was,  with 
piqueurs  and  horn-blowers,  whole  packs  of  dogs,  and  a  trooj)  of  gentle- 
men in  his  uniform.  Not  seldom  his  Eminence's  keepers  and  Monsieur 
de  Saverne's  solitary  garde-chasse  had  quarrels.  "  Tell  your  master 
that  I  will  shoot  any  red-legs  which  come  upon  my  land,"  Monsieur 
de  Saverne  said  in  one  of  these  controversies,  as  he  held  up  a, 
partridge  which  he  had  just  brought  down  ;  and  the  keeper  knew 
the  moody  nobleman  would  be  true  to  his  word. 

Two  neighbours  so  ill  disposed  towards  one  another  were  speedily 
at  law  ;  and  in  the  courts  at  Strasbourg  a  poor  provincial  gentleman 
was  likely  to  meet  with  scanty  justice  when  opposed  to  such  a 
powerful  enemy  as  the  Prince  Archbishop  of  tlie  Province,  one  of 
the  greatest  noblemen  of  the  kingdom.  Boundary  questions,  in  a 
land  where  there  are  no  hedges— game,  forest,  and  fishery  c[uestions 
— how  can  I  tell,  who  am  no  lawyer,  what  set  the  gentlemen  at 
loggerheads  1  In  later  days,  I  met  one  Monsieur  Georgel,  an  Abbd, 
who  had  been  a  secretary  of  the  Prince  Cardinal,  and  he  told  me 
that  Monsieur  de  Saverne  was  a  headlong,  violent,  ill-conditioned 
little  mauvais  coiicheiir,  as  they  say  in  France,  and  ready  to  quarrel 
with  or  without  a  reason. 

These  quarrels  naturally  took  the  Count  de  Saverne  to  his 
advocates  and  lawyers  at  Strasbourg,  and  he  would  absent  himself 
for  days  from  home,  where  his  jjoor  Avife  was  perhaps  not  sorry  to 
be  rid  of  him.  It  chanced,  on  one  of  tliese  expeditions  to  the  chief 
town  of  his  province,  that  he  fell  in  with  a  former  comrade  in 
his  campaigns  of  Hastenbeck  and  Laufeldt,  an  officer  of  Soubise's 
regiment,  the  Baron  de  la  Motte.*  La  Motte  had  been  destined 
to  the  Church,  like  many  cadets  of  good  family,  but,  his  elder 
brother  dying,  he  was  released  from  the  tonsure  and  the  seminary, 
and  entered  the  army  under  good  protection.  Mesdemoiselles  de 
Saverne  remendjered  this  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  at  Nanci  in  old 
days.  He  bore  the  worst  of  characters  ;  he  was  gandder,  intriguer, 
duellist,  profligate.  I  suspect  that  most  gentlemen's  rci)utations 
come  off  ill  under  the  tongues  of  these  old  ladies,  and  have  heard 
of  other  countries  where  mesdemoiseUes  are  eipially  hard  to  please. 
"  Well,  have  we  not  all  our  faults  1 "  I  imagine  Monsieur  de  Saverne 
saying,  in  a  rage.      "  Is  there  no  such  thing  as  calumny  \     Are  we 

*  Tliat  unlucky  Prince  dc  Tv(^lian  was  to  suffer  by  another  Dclamotte,  who, 
with  his  "  Valoisc "  of  a  wife,  played  such  a  notorious  part  in  the  famous 
''diamond  necklace"  business;  but  the  two  worthies  were  not,  I  believe, 
related.— D.  D. 


452  DENIS    DUVAL 

never  to  repent,  if  we  liave  been  wrong  ?  I  know  he  has  led  a  wild 
youth.  Others  may  have  done  as  much.  But  prodigals  have  been 
reclaimed  ere  now,  and  I  for  my  part  will  not  turn  my  back  on  this 
one."  "  Ah,  I  wish  he  had  ! "  De  la  Motte  said  to  me  myself  in 
later  days  ;  "  but  it  was  his  fate,  his  fate  !  " 

One  day,  then,  the  Count  de  Savernc  returns  home  from 
Strasbourg  with  his  new  friend ;  presents  the  Baron  de  la  Motte 
to  the  ladies  of  his  house,  makes  the  gloomy  place  as  cheerful  as 
he  can  for  his  guest,  brings  forth  the  best  wine  from  his  cave,  and 
beats  his  best  covers  for  game.  I  myself  knew  the  Baron  some 
years  later  : — a  handsome,  tall,  sallow-faced  man,  with  a  shifty  eye, 
a  soft  voice,  and  a  grand  manner.  Monsieur  de  Saverne  for  his 
part  was  short,  black,  and  ill-favoured,  as  I  have  heard  my  mother 
say.  But  Mrs.  Duval  did  not  love  him,  fancying  that  he  ill-treated 
her  Biche.  Where  she  disliked  people,  my  worthy  parent  would 
never  allow  them  a  single  good  quality ;  but  she  always  averred 
that  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  was  a  perfect  fine  gentleman. 

The  intimacy  between  these  two  gentlemen  increased  apace. 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte  was  ever  welcome  at  Saverne  :  a  room  in 
the  house  was  called  his  room  :  their  visitor  was  an  acquaintance 
of  their  enemy  the  Cardinal  also,  and  would  often  come  from  the 
one  chateau  to  the  other.  Laughingly  he  would  tell  how  angry 
Monseigneur  was  with  his  neighbour.  He  wished  he  could  make 
peace  between  the  two  houses.  He  gave  good  advice  to  Monsieur  de 
Saverne,  and  pointed  out  the  danger  he  ran  in  provoking  so  powerful 
an  adversary.  Men  had  been  imprisoned  for  life  for  less  reason. 
The  Cardinal  might  get  a  lettre  de  cachet  against  his  obstinate 
opponent.  He  could,  besides,  ruin  Saverne  with  fines  and  law 
costs.  The  contest  between  the  two  was  quite  unequal,  and  the 
weaker  party  nuxst  inevitalily  be  crushed,  unless  these  unhai)py 
disputes  should  cease.  As  fiir  as  the  ladies  of  the  house  dared 
speak,  they  coincided  in  the  opinion  of  Monsieur  de  la  Motte, 
and  were  for  submission  and  reconciliation  with  their  neighbours. 
Madame  de  Saverne's  own  relations  heard  of  the  feud,  and  implored 
the  Count  to  bring  it  to  an  end.  It  was  one  of  these,  the  Baron  de 
Viomesnil,  going  to  command  in  Corsica,  who  entreated  Monsieur  de 
Saverne  to  accompany  him  on  the  campaign.  Anywhere  the  Count 
was  safer  than  in  his  own  house  with  an  implacable  and  irresistible 
enemy  at  his  gate.  Monsieur  de  Saverne  yieldeil  to  his  kinsman's 
importunities.  He  took  down  his  sword  and  pistols  of  Laufeldt 
froni  the  wall,  where  they  had  liung  for  twenty  years.  He  set  the 
aff;xirs  of  his  house  in  order,  and  after  solemnly  assembling  his 
fixmily,  and  on  his  knees  confiding  it  to  the  gracious  protection  of 
Heaven,  he  left  home  to  join  the  suite  of  the  French  General. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  453 

A  few  weeks  after  he  left  home— several  years  after  his  marriage 
— his  wife  wrote  to  inform  him  that  she  was  likely  to  be  a  mother. 
The  stern  man,  who  had  been  very  unhappy  previously,  and  chose 
to  think  tliat  his  wife's  barrenness  was  a  punishment  of  Heaven  for 
some  crime  of  his  or  hers,  was  very  much  moved  by  this  announce- 
ment. I  have  still  at  home  a  German  Bible  which  he  used,  and  in 
which  is  written  in  the  German  a  very  affecting  prayer  composed 
by  him,  imploring  the  Divine  blessing  upon  the  child  about  to  be 
born,  and  hoping  tliat  this  infant  might  grow  in  grace,  and  bring 
peace  and  love  and  unity  into  tlie  household.  It  would  appear 
that  he  made  no  doubt  he  should  have  a  sou.  His  hope  and  aim 
were  to  save  in  every  possible  way  for  this  child.  I  have  read 
many  letters  of  his  which  he  sent  from  Corsica  to  his  wife,  and 
which  she  kept.  They  were  full  of  strange  minute  orders,  as  to 
the  rearing  and  education  of  this  son  that  was  to  be  born.  He  en- 
joined saving  amounting  to  niggardliness  in  his  household,  and  cal- 
culated how  much  might  be  put  away  in  ten,  in  twenty  years,  so 
that  the  coming  heir  might  have  a  property  worthy  of  his  ancient 
name.  In  case  he  should  fdl  in  action,  he  laid  commands  upon 
his  wife  to  pursue  a  system  of  the  most  rigid  economy,  so  that  the 
child  at  coming  of  age  miglit  be  able  to  appear  creditably  in  the 
world.  In  these  letters,  I  remember,  the  events  of  the  campaign 
were  disnussed  in  a  very  few  words  ;  the  main  part  of  the  letters 
consisted  of  prayers,  speculations,  and  prophecies  regarding  the 
child,  and  sermons  couched  in  the  language  of  the  writer's  stern 
creed.  When  the  child  was  born,  and  a  girl  appeared  in  place  of 
the  boy,  upon  whom  the  poor  fatlier  had  set  his  heart,  I  hear  the 
family  were  so  dismayed,  that  they  hardly  dared  to  break  the  news 
to  the  chief  of  the  house. 

Who  told  me?  The  same  man  who  said  he  wished  he  had 
never  seen  M.  de  Savenie :  the  man  for  whom  the  unhappy  gentle- 
man had  conceived  a  warm  friendship ; — tlie  man  who  was  to  bring 
a  mysterious  calamity  upon  those  whom,  as  I  do  think,  and  in  his 
selfish  way,  he  loved  sincerely,  and  he  spoke  at  a  time  when  he 
could  have  little  desire  to  deceive  me. 

The  lord  of  the  castle  is  gone  on  the  campaign.  Tlie  chatelaine 
is  left  alone  in  her  melancholy  tower  with  her  two  dismal  duennas. 
My  good  motlier,  speaking  in  later  days  about  these  matters,  took  up 
the  part  of  her  Biche  against  the  ladies  of  Barr  and  their  brother, 
and  always  asserted  that  the  tyranny  of  the  duennas,  and  the 
meddling,  and  the  verbosity,  and  the  ill-temper  of  M.  de  Saverne 
himself,  brought  about  the  melancholy  events  which  now  presently 
ensued.  The  Count  de  Saverne  was  a  little  man  (my  mother  said) 
who  loved  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  who  hehl  forth  from  morning 


*54  DENIS    DUVAL 

till  niglit.  His  life  was  a  fuss.  He  would  weigh  the  coffee,  and 
count  the  lumps  of  sugar,  and  have  a  finger  in  every  pie  in  his 
frugal  house.  Night  and  morning  he  preached  sermons  to  his 
family,  and  he  continued  to  preach  when  not  en  chaire,  laying 
down  tlie  law  upon  all  subjects,  untiringly  voluble.  Cheerfulness 
in  the  company  of  such  a  man  was  hyjiocrisy.  Mesdames  de  Barr 
liad  to  disguise  weariness,  to  assume  an  air  of  contentment,  and 
to  appear  to  be  interested  when  tlie  Count  preached.  As  for  the 
Count's  sisters,  they  were  accustomed  to  listen  to  their  brother  and 
lord  witli  respectful  submission.  They  had  a  hundred  domestic 
occupations  :  they  had  baking  and  boiling,  and  pickling,  and  wash- 
ing, and  endless  embroidery  :  the  life  of  the  little  chateau  was  quite 
supportable  to  tliem.  They  knew  no  better.  Even  in  their  father's 
days  at  Nanci,  the  ungainly  women  kept  pretty  much  aloof  from 
the  world,  and  were  little  better  than  domestic  servants  in  waiting 
on  Monseigneur. 

And  Madame  de  Saverne,  on  her  first  entrance  into  the  family, 
accepted  the  subordinate  position  meekly  enough.  She  spun  and 
she  bleached,  and  she  worked  great  embroideries,  and  busied  herself 
about  her  house,  and  listened  deuiurely  whilst  Monsieur  le  Comte 
was  preaching.  But  then  there  came  a  time  when  her  duties  in- 
terested her  no  more,  when  his  sermons  became  especially  wearisome, 
when  sharp  words  passed  between  her  and  her  lord,  and  the  poor 
thing  exhibited  symptoms  of  impatience  and  revolt.  And  with  the 
revolt  arose  awful  storms  and  domestic  battles ;  and  after  battles, 
submission,  reconciliation,  forgiveness,  hypocrisy. 

It  has  been  said  that  Monsieur  de  Saverne  loved  the  sound  of 
his  own  croaking  voice,  and  to  hold  forth  to  his  own  congregation. 
Night  after  night  he  and  his  friend  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  would 
have  religious  disputes  together,  in  which  the  Huguenot  gentleman 
flattered  himself  that  he  constantly  had  the  better  of  the  ex-pupil 
of  the  seminary.  I  was  not  present  naturally,  not  setting  my  foot 
on  French  ground  until  five-and-twenty  years  after,  but  I  can  fancy 
Madame  the  Countess  sitting  at  her  tambour-frame,  and  the  old 
duenna  ladies  at  their  cards,  and  the  combat  of  the  churches  going 
an  between  these  two  champions  in  the  little  old  saloon  of  the 
Hotel  de  Saverne.  "  As  I  hope  for  pardon,"  Monsieur  de  la  Motte 
said  to  me  at  a  supreme  moment  of  his  life,  "and  to  meet  those 
whom  on  earth  I  loved,  and  made  unhappy,  no  wrong  passed 
between  Clarisse  and  me,  save  that  wrong  which  consisted  in  dis- 
guising from  her  husband  the  regard  we  had  for  one  another.  Once, 
twice,  thrice,  I  went  away  from  their  house,  but  that  unhappy 
Saverne  would  bring  me  back,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  to  return. 
I  would  let  him  talk  for  hours — I  own  it — so  that  I  might  be 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  455 

near  Clarisse.  I  had  to  answer  from  time  to  time,  and  rubl)ed 
up  my  old  seminary  learning  to  reply  to  his  sermons.  I  must 
often  have  spoken  at  random,  for  my  thoughts  were  far  away  from 
the  poor  man's  radotages,  and  he  could  no  more  change  my  con- 
victions than  he  could  change  the  colour  of  my  skin.  Hours  and 
hours  thus  passed  away.  They  would  have  been  intolerably  tedious 
to  others  :  they  were  not  so  to  me.  I  preferred  that  gloomy  little 
chateau  to  the  finest  place  in  Europe.  To  see  Clarisse,  was  all  I 
asked.  Denis  !  There  is  a  power  irresistible  imi)elling  all  of  us. 
From  the  moment  I  first  set  eyes  on  her,  I  knew  she  was  my 
fate.  I  shot  an  English  grenadier  at  Hastenbeck,  who  would  have 
bayoneted  poor  Saverne  but  for  me.  As  I  lifted  him  up  from 
the  ground,  I  thought,  '  I  shall  have  to  repent  of  ever  having  seen 
that  man.'  I  felt  the  saine  thing,  Duval,  when  I  saw  you."  And 
as  the  unhappy  gentleman  sjioke,  I  remembered  how  I  for  my  part 
felt  a  singular  and  unpleasant  sensation  as  of  terror  and  ajiproach- 
ing  evil  when  first  I  looked  at  that  handsome,  ill-omened  face. 

I  thankfully  believe  the  words  which  Monsieur  dc  la  Motte 
spoke  to  me  at  a  time  when  he  could  have  no  cause  to  disguise 
the  truth ;  and  am  assured  of  the  innocence  of  the  Countess  de 
Saverne.  Poor  lady  !  if  she  erred  in  thought,  she  had  to  pay  so 
awful  a  penalty  for  her  crime,  that  we  luunbly  hope  it  has  been 
forgiven  her.  She  was  not  true  to  her  husband,  though  she  did 
him  no  wrong.  If,  while  trembling  liefore  him,  she  yet  had  dis- 
simulation enough  to  smile  and  be  merry,  I  suppose  no  ])reacher  or 
husband  would  be  very  angry  with  her  for  that  hypocrisy.  I  have 
seen  a  slave  in  the  West  Indies  soundly  cutted  for  looking  sulky  : 
we  expect  our  negroes  to  be  obedient,  and  to  be  happy  too. 

Now  when  Monsieur  de  Saverne  went  away  to  Corsica,  I 
suspect  he  was  strongly  advised  to  take  that  step  by  his  friend 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte.  When  he  was  gone,  Monsieur  de  la  Motte 
did  not  present  himself  at  tlie  Hotel  de  Saverne,  where  an  old 
schoolfellow  of  his,  a  pastor  and  preacher  from  Kehl,  on  the 
German  Rhine  bank,  was  installed  in  command  of  the  kttle  garrison, 
from  which  its  natural  captain  had  been  obliged  to  witlulraw ;  but 
there  is  no  doubt  that  poor  Clarisse  deceived  tliis  gentleman  and 
her  two  sisters-in-law,  and  acted  toM'ards  them  with  a  very  culpable 
hypocrisy. 

Although  there  was  a  deadly  feud  between  the  two  chateaux 
of  Saverne — namely,  the  Cardinal's  new-built  castle  in  the  Park, 
and  the  Count's  hotel  in  the  little  town — yet  each  house  knew 
more  or  less  of  the  other's  doings.  When  the  Prince  Cardinal  and 
his  Court  w^ere  at  Saverne,  Mesdemoiselles  de  Barr  were  kept 
perfectly   well-informed  of  all  the  festivities   which   they  did   not 


456  DENIS    DUVAL 

share.  In  our  little  Fareport  here  do  not  the  Miss  Prys,  my 
neighbours,  know  what  I  have  for  dinner,  the  amount  of  my 
income,  the  price  of  my  wife's  last  gown,  and  the  items  of  my 
sou's.  Captain  Scapegrace's,  tailor's  bill.  No  doubt  the  ladies  of 
Barr  were  equally  well-informed  of  the  doings  of  tlie  Prince 
Coadjutor  and  his  Court.  Such  gambling,  such  splendour,  such 
painted  hussies  from  Strasbourg,  such  plays,  masquerades,  and 
orgies  as  took  place  in  that  castle !  Mesdcmoiselles  had  the  very 
latest  particulars  of  all  these  horrors,  and  the  Cardinal's  castle 
was  to  them  as  the  castle  of  a  wicked  ogre.  From  her  little  dingy 
tower  at  night  Madame  de  Saverne  could  look  out,  and  see  the 
Cardinal's  sixty  })alace  windows  all  aflame.  Of  summer  nights, 
gusts  of  unhallowed  music  would  be  heard  from  the  great  house, 
wliere  dancing  festivals,  theatrical  pieces  even,  were  performed. 
Though  Madame  de  Saverne  was  forbidden  by  her  husband  to 
freijuent  those  assemblies,  the  townspeople  were  up  to  the  palace 
from  time  to  time,  and  Madame  couW  not  help  hearing  of  the 
diiings  there.  In  spite  of  the  Count's  ])ro]iibition,  his  gardener 
[)oached  in  the  Cardinal's  woods ;  one  or  two  of  the  servants  were 
snuiggled  in  to  see  a  fete  or  a  ball ;  tlien  Madame's  own  woman 
went ;  tlien  Madame  herself  began  to  have  a  wicked  longing  to  go, 
as  Madame's  first  ancestress  liad  for  tlie  frnit  of  tlie  forbidden  tree. 
Is  not  the  apple  always  ]-ipe  on  that  tree,  and  does  not  the  temi)ter 
for  ever  invite  you  to  pluck  and  eat?  Madame  de  Saverne  had 
a  lively  little  waiting-maid,  whose  briglit  eyes  loved  to  look  into 
neighbours'  parks  and  gardens,  and  who  had  found  favour  with 
one  of  the  domestics  of  the  Prince  Archbislu^p.  This  woman 
brought  news  to  her  mistress  of  the  feasts,  balls,  banquets,  nay, 
comedies,  which  were  performed  at  the  Prince  Cardinal's.  Tiie 
Prince's  gentlemen  went  hunting  in  his  iniiforni.  He  was  served 
on  plate,  and  a  lacquey  in  his  livery  stood  behind  each  guest. 
He  had  the  French  comedians  over  from  Strasbourg.  Oh  !  that 
Monsieur  de  IVFoliere  was  a  droll  gentleman  ;  and  how  grand  the 
"  Cid  "  was  ! 

Now,  to  see  these  plays  and  balls,  IMartha,  the  maid,  must 
have  had  intelligence  in  and  out  of  both  the  houses  of  Saverne. 
She  must  have  deceived  those  old  dragons,  Mesdemoiselles.  She 
must  have  had  means  of  creeping  out  at  the  gate,  and  silently 
creeping  back  again.  She  told  her  mistress  everything  she  saw, 
acted  the  plays  for  her,  and  described  the  dresses  of  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  Madame  de  Saverne  was  never  tired  of  hearing  her 
maid's  stories.  When  Martha  was  going  to  a  fete,  Madame  lent 
lier  some  little  ornament  to  wear,  and  yet  when  Pasteur  Scluiorr 
and  Mesdeiuoiselles  talkei^  of  the  proceedings  at  Great  Saverne,  and 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  457 

as  if  tlie  fires  of  Gomoi-rali  were  ready  to  swallow  up  that  palace, 
and  all  within  it,  the  Lady  of  Saverne  sat  demurely  in  silence,  and 
listened  to  tlieir  croaking  and  sermons.  Listened  1  The  pastor 
exhorted  the  household,  the  old  ladies  talked  night  after  night, 
and  poor  Madame  de  Saverne  never  heeded.  Her  thoughts  were 
away  in  Great  Saverne ;  her  spirit  was  for  ever  hankering  about 
those  woods.  Letters  came  now  and  again  from  Monsieur  de 
Saverne,  with  the  army.  They  had  been  engaged  with  the  enemy. 
Very  good.  He  was  unliurt.  Heaven  be  praised  !  And  then  the 
gi'im  husband  read  his  poor  little  wife  a  erim  sermon  ;  and  the 
grim  sisters  and  tlie  chaplain  commented  on  it.  Once,  after  an 
action  at  Calvi,  Monsieur  de  Saverne,  who  was  always  specially 
lively  in  moments  of  danger,  described  how  narrowly  he  had 
escaped  with  his  life,  and  the  chaplain  took  advantage  of  the 
circumstance,  and  delivered  to  the  household  a  prodigious  dis- 
course on  death,  on  danger,  on  preservation  here  and  hereafter, 
and  alas,  and  alas !  poor  Madame  de  Saverne  found  that  she  had 
not  listened  to  a  word  of  the  homily.  Her  thoughts  were  not 
with  the  preacher,  nor  with  the  captain  of  Viomesnil's  regiment 
before  Calvi ;  they  were  in  the  palace  at  Great  Saverne,  with  the 
balls,  and  the  comedies,  and  tlie  music,  and  the  fine  gentlemen 
from  Paris  and  Strasbourg,  and  out  of  the  Empire  beyond  the 
Rhine,  wlio  fi-equented  the  Prince's  entertainments. 

What  happened  where  the  wicked  spirit  was  wliisjjering  "  Eat," 
and  the  tempting  apple  hung  within  reach  ?  One  niglit  Avhen  the 
household  was  at  rest,  Madame  de  Saverne,  muftled  in  cluak  and 
calash,  with  a  female  companion  similarly  disguised,  tripped  silently 
out  of  the  back  gate  of  the  Hotel  de  Saverne,  found  a  carriole  in 
waiting,  with  a  ilriver  who  apparently  knew  the  road  and  the 
passengers  he  was  to  carry,  and  after  half-an-hour's  drive  through 
the  straight  avenues  of  tlie  park  of  Great  Saverne,  aliglited  at  the 
gates  of  the  chateau,  where  the  driver  gave  up  the  reins  of  the 
carriole  to  a  domestic  in  waiting,  and,  by  doors  and  passages  which 
seemed  perfectly  well-known  to  him,  the  coachman  and  the  two 
women  entered  the  castle  together  and  found  their  way  to  a  gallery 
in  a  great  hall,  in  which  many  lords  and  ladies  were  seated,  and  at 
the  end  of  which  was  a  stage,  with  a  curtain  before  it.  Men  and 
wouien  came  backwards  and  forwards  on  this  stage,  and  recited 
dialogue  in  verses.  0  mercy  !  it  was  a  comedy  they  were  acting, 
one  of  those  wicked  delightful  plays  which  she  was  forbidden  to 
see,  and  which  she  was  longing  to  behold  !  After  the  comedy  was 
to  be  a  ball,  in  which  the  actors  would  dance  in  tlieir  stage  habits. 
Some  of  the  people  were  in  masks  already,  and  in  that  box  near 
to   tlie   stage,    surrounded    by   a   little    crowd    of  dominoes,    sat^ 


458  DENIS    DUVAL 

Monseigneur  the  Prince  Cardinal  himself.  Madame  de  Saverne 
liad  seen  him  and  his  cavalcade  sometimes  returning  from  hunting. 
She  would  have  been  as  much  puzzled  to  say  what  the  play  was 
about  as  to  give  an  account  of  Pasteur  Schnorr's  sermon  a  few 
hours  before.  But  Frontin  made  jokes  with  his  master  Damis , 
and  Geronte  locked  up  the  doors  of  his  house,  and  went  to  bed 
griunbling ;  and  it  grew  quite  dark,  and  Matluirine  flung  a  rope- 
ladder  out  of  window,  and  she  and  her  mistress  Elmire  came  down 
the  ladder ;  and  Frontin  held  it,  and  Elmire,  with  a  little  cry, 
fell  into  the  arms  of  Monsieur  Damis ;  and  master  and  man,  and 
maid  and  mistress,  sang  a  merry  chorus  together,  in  which  human 
frailty  was  very  cheerfully  depicted ;  and  when  they  had  done, 
away  they  went  to  the  gondola  which  was  in  waiting  at  the  canal 
stairs,  and  so  good-night.  And  when  old  Geronte,  wakened  up  by 
the  disturbance,  at  last  came  forth  in  his  nightcap,  and  saw  tlie 
Ijoat  paddling  away  out  of  reach,  you  may  be  sure  that  the  audience 
laughed  at  the  poor  impotent  raging  old  wretch.  It  was  a  very 
merry  play  indeed,  and  is  still  popular  and  performed  in  France 
and  elsewhere. 

After  the  play  came  a  ball.  Would  Madame  dance  1  Would 
the  noble  Countess  of  Saverne  dance  with  a  coachman  1  There 
were  others  below  on  the  dancing-floor  dressed  in  mask  and  domino 
as  she  was.  Who  ever  said  she  had  a  mask  and  domino?  You 
see  it  has  been  stated  that  she  was  muffled  in  cloak  and  calash. 
Well,  is  not  a  domino  a  cloak  ?  and  has  it  not  a  hood  or  calash 
appended  to  it  ?  and,  pray,  do  not  women  wear  masks  at  home  as 
well  as  at  the  Ridotto  1 

Another  question  arises  here.  A  high-born  lady  entrusts  her- 
self to  a  charioteer,  who  drives  her  to  tlie  castle  of  a  prince  her 
husband's  enemy.  Who  was  her  companion  ?  Of  course  he  could 
be  no  other  than  that  luckless  Monsieur  de  la  Motte.  He  had 
never  been  very  for  away  from  Madame  de  Saverne  since  her 
husband's  departure.  In  spite  of  chaplains,  and  dueiuias,  and 
guards,  and  locks  and  keys,  he  had  found  means  of  comnuuiicating 
with  her.  How  1  By  what  lies  and  stratagems  ?  By  what  arts 
and  bribery  1  These  poor  people  are  both  gone  to  their  account. 
Both  suffered  a  fearful  punishment.  I  will  not  describe  their 
follies,  and  don't  care  to  be  Monsieur  Figaro,  and  hold  the  ladder 
and  lantern,  while  the  Count  scales  Rosina's  window.  Poor 
frightened  erring  soul  !  She  suffered  an  awful  penalty  for  what, 
no  doubt,  was  a  great  wrong. 

A  child  almost,  she  was  married  to  Monsieur  de  Saverne,  witli- 
out  knowing  him,  without  liking  him,  because  her  parents  ordered 
her,  and  because  she  was  bound  to  comply  with  their  will.     She 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  459 

was  sold,  and  went  to  her  slavery.  She  lived  at  first  obediently- 
enough.  If  she  shed  tears,  they  were  dried  ;  if  she  quarrelled  with 
her  husband,  the  two  were  presently  reconciled.  She  bore  no 
especial  malice,  and  was  as  gentle,  subordinate  a  slave  as  ever  you 
shall  see  in  Januiica  or  Barbadoes.  Nobody's  tears  were  sooner 
dried,  as  I  should  judge :  none  would  be  more  ready  to  kiss  the 
hand  of  the  overseer  who  drove  her.  But  you  don't  expe<"t  sincerity 
and  subservience  too.  I  know,  for  my  part,  a  lady  who  only  obeys 
when  she  likes :  and  foitli !  it  may  be  \t  is  /  who  am  the  hypocrite, 
and  have  to  trenil)lo,  and  smile,  and  swindle  before  het: 

When  Mnibine  de  Saverne's  time  was  nearly  come,  it  was 
ordered  that  she  should  go  to  Strasbourg,  where  the  best  medical 
assistance  is  to  be  had :  and  here,  six  months  after  her  husband's 
departure  for  Corsica,  their  child,  Agnes  de  Saverne,  was  born. 

Did  secret  terror  and  mental  discjuietude  and  remorse  now  fall 
on  the  unhappy  lady  ?  She  wrote  to  my  mother,  at  this  time  her 
only  confidante  (and  yet  not  a  confidante  at  all  1) — "  0  Ursule  !  I 
dread  this  event.  Perhaps  I  shall  die.  I  think  I  hope  I  shall. 
In  these  long  days  since  he  has  been  away,  I  have  got  so  to  dread 
his  return,  that  I  believe  I  shall  go  mad  when  I  see  him.  Do  you 
know,  after  the  battle  before  Calvi,  when  I  read  that  many  (jfficers 
had  been  killed,  I  thought,  is  Monsieur  de  Saverne  killed  1  And  I 
read  the  list  down,  and  his  name  was  not  there  :  and,  my  sister, 
my  sister,  I  Avas  not  glad  !     Have  I  come  to  be  such  a  monster  as 

to  wish  my  own  husband No.     I  wish  I  Avas.     I  can't  speak 

to  Monsieur  SchnoiT  about  this.  He  is  so  stupid.  He  doesn't 
understand  me.  He  is  like  my  husband,  for  ever  preaching  me 
his  sermons. 

"  Listen,  Ursule  !  Speak  it  to  nobody  !  I  have  been  to  hear  a 
sermon.  Oh,  it  was  indeed  divine  !  It  was  not  from  one  of  our 
pastors.  Oh,  how  they  Aveary  me !  It  was  from  a  good  bishop 
of  the  French  Church — not  our  German  Church — the  Bishop  of 
Amiens — who  happens  to  be  here  on  a  visit  to  the  Cardinal  Prince. 
The  bishop's  name  is  Monsieur  de  la  Jfotte.  He  is  a  relative  of  a 
gentleman  of  whom  we  have  seen  a  great  deal  lately — of  a  great 
friend  of  Monsieur  de  Saverne,  who  saved  my  husband's  life  in  the 
battle  M.  de  S.  is  always  talking  about. 

"  How  beautiful  the  cathedral  is  !  It  was  night  when  I  went. 
The  church  was  lighted  like  the  stars,  and  the  music  was  like 
Heaven.  Ah,  hoAv  different  from  Monsieur  Schnorr  at  home,  from 
— from  somebody  else  at  my  new  home  who  is  always  preaching — ■ 
that  is,  when  he  is  at  home  !  Poor  man !  I  wonder  whether  he 
preaches  to  them  in  Corsica  !  I  i)ity  them  if  he  does.  Don't  men- 
tion the  cathedral  if  you  write  to  me.     The  dragons  don't  know 


4h0  DENIS    DUVAL 

anytliin,'^'  about  it.  How  they  would  scold  if  they  did  !  Oh,  how 
they  ennuyent  me,  the  dragons  !  Behold  them  !  They  think  I  am 
writing  to  my  husband.  Ah,  Ursule  !  When  I  write  to  him,  I  sit 
for  hours  before  the  paper.  I  say  nothing ;  and  what  I  say  seems 
to  be  lies.  Whereas  when  I  write  to  you,  my  pen  runs — -runs ! 
The  paper  is  covered  before  I  think  I  have  begun.     So  it  is  when  I 

write  to I  do  believe  that  vilain  dragon  is  peering  at  my 

note  with  her  spectacles  !  Yes,  my  good  sister,  I  am  writing  to 
Monsieur  le  Comte  !  " 

To  this  letter  a  postscript  is  added,  as  by  the  Countess's  com- 
mand, in  the  German  language,  in  which  Madame  de  Saverne's 
medical  attendant  announces  the  birth  of  a  daughter,  and  that  the 
child  and  mother  are  doing  well. 

That  daughter  is  sitting  before  me  now — with  si^ectacles  on 
nose  too — very  placidly  spelling  the  Portsmouth  paper,  where  I 
hope  she  will  soon  read  the  promotion  of  Monsieur  Scapegrace,  her 
son.  She  has  exchanged  her  noble  name  for  mine,  which  is  only 
humble  and  honest.  My  dear  !  your  eyes  are  not  so  bright  as  once 
I  remember  them,  and  the  raven  locks  are  streaked  with  silver. 
To  shield  thy  head  from  dangers  has  been  the  blessed  chance  and 
duty  of  my  life.  When  I  turn  towards  her,  and  see  her  moored  in 
our  harbour  of  rest,  after  our  life's  chequered  voyage,  calm  and 
happy,  a  sense  of  immense  gratitude  fills  my  being,  and  my  heart 
says  a  hymn  of  praise. 

The  first  days  of  the  life  of  Agnes  de  Saverne  were  marked  by 
incidents  which  were  strangely  to  influence  her  career.  Around  her 
little  cradle  a  double,  a  triple  tragedy  was  about  to  be  enacted. 
Strange  tliat  death,  crime,  revenge,  remorse,  mystery,  should  attend 
round  the  cradle  of  one  so  innocent  and  pure — as  pure  and  innocent, 
I  pray  Heaven  now,  as  upon  that  day  when,  at  scarce  a  month  old, 
the  adventures  of  her  life  began. 

That  letter  to  my  mother,  written  by  Madame  de  Saverne  on 
the  eve  of  her  child's  birth,  and  finished  by  her  attendant,  bears 
date  November  25,  1768.  A  month  later  Martha  Seebach,  her 
attendant,  wrote  (in  German)  that  her  mistress  had  suff"ered  fright- 
fully from  fever ;  so  much  so  that  her  reason  left  her  for  some  time, 
and  her  life  was  despaired  of.  Mesdemoiselles  de  Barr  were  for 
bringing  up  the  child  by  hand ;  but  not  being  versed  in  nursery 
practices,  the  infant  had  ailed  sadly  until  restored  to  its  mother. 
Madame  de  Saverne  was  now  tranquil.  Madame  was  greatly  better. 
She  had  suffered  most  fearfully.  In  her  illness  she  was  constantly 
calling  for  her  foster-sister  to  protect  her  from  some  danger  which, 
as  she  ai)i)eared  to  fancy,  menaced  Madame. 

Child  as  I  was  at  the  time  when  these  letters  were  passing,  I 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  46l 

remember  the  arrival  of  the  next.  It  lies  in  yonder  drawer,  and 
was  written  by  a  poor  fevered  hand  which  is  now  cold,  in  ink  wliicl- 
is  faded  after  fifty  years.*  I  remember  my  mother  screaming  out 
in  German,  which  she  always  spoke  wlien  strongly  moved,  "  Dear 
Heaven,  my  child  is  mad — is  mad  !  "  And  indeed  that  poor  faded 
letter  co7itains  a  strange  rhapsody. 

"Ursule ! "  slie  wrote  (I  do  not  care  to  give  at  length  the  words 
of  the  poor  wandering  creature),  "after  my  child  was  born  the 
demons  wanted  to  take  her  from  me.  But  I  struggled  and  kept 
her  quite  close,  and  now  they  can  no  longer  hurt  her.  I  took  her 
to  church.  Martha  went  with  me,  and  He  was  there — he  always 
is — to  defend  me  from  the  demons,  and  I  had  her  christened  Agnes, 
and  I  was  christened  Agnes  too.  Think  of  my  being  christened  at 
twenty-two  !  Agnes  tlie  First,  and  Agnes  the  Seconrl.  But  though 
my  name  is  changed,  I  am  always  the  same  to  my  Ursule,  and  my 
name  now  is,  Agnes  Clarisse  de  Saverne,  born  de  Yiomesnil." 

She  had  actually,  when  not  quite  mistress  of  her  own  reason, 
been  baptized  into  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  with  her  child. 
Was  she  sane  when  she  so  acted  ?  Had  she  thought  of  the  step 
before  taking  it  1  Had  she  known  Catholic  clergymen  at  Saverne, 
or  had  she  other  reasons  for  her  conversion  than  those  Avhich  were 
furnished  in  the  conversations  which  took  place  between  her  husband 
and  Monsieur  de  la  IMotte  1  In  this  letter  the  poor  lady  says, 
"  Yesterday  two  persons  came  to  my  bed  with  gold  croAvns  round 
their  heads.  One  was  dj-essed  like  a  priest :  one  Avas  beautiful  and 
covered  with  arrows ;  and  they  said,  '  We  are  Saint  Fabian  and 
Saint  Sebastian  ;  and  to-morrow  is  the  day  of  Saint  Agnes  :  and 
she  Mill  be  at  church  to  receive  you  there.' " 

What  the  real  case  was  I  never  knew.  The  Protestant  clergy- 
man whom  I  saw  in  after  days  could  only  bring  his  book  to  show 
that  he  had  christened  the  infant,  not  Agnes,  but  Augustine. 
Martha  Seebach  is  dead.  La  Motte,  when  I  conversed  with  him, 
did  not  toucli  upon  this  part  of  the  ])oor  lady's  history.  I  conjecture 
that  the  images  and  })ictures  Avhich  she  had  seen  in  the  churches 
operated  ujion  her  fevered  brain ;  that,  iiaving  procured  a  Roman 
Calendar  and  Missal,  she  knew  saints'  days  and  feasts  :  and,  not 
yet  recovered  from  her  delirium  or  (juite  responsible  for  the  actions 
which  she  performed,  she  took  her  child  to  the  cathedral,  and  was 
baptized  there. 

And  now,  no  doubt,  the  poor  lady  had  to  practise  more  deceit 
and  concealment.     The  "  demons  "  were  the  old  maiden  sisters  left 

*  Tlie  memoirs  apjicar  to  have  been  written  in  the  j-ears  '20,  '21.  Mr.  Duval 
■was  gazetted  Hear- Admiral  and  K.C.B.  in  the  promotions  on  the  accession  of 
King  George  IV, 


462  DENIS    DUVAL 

to  watch  over  her.  She  had  to  hoodwink  these.  Had  she  not  done 
so  before — when  slie  went  to  the  Cardinal's  palace  at  Saverne  ? 
Wherever  the  poor  thing  moved  I  fancy  those  ill-omened  eyes  of 
La  Motte  glimmering  upon  her  out  of  the  darkness.  Poor  Eve— 
not  lost  quite,  I  pray  and  think, — but  that  serpent  was  ever  trailing 
after  her,  and  she  was  to  die  poisoned  in  its  coil.  Who  shall  under- 
stand the  awful  ways  of  Fate  1  A  year  after  that  period  regarding 
which  I  write,  a  lovely  Imperial  Princess  rode  through  the  Stras- 
bourg streets  radiant  and  blushing,  amidst  pealing  bells,  roaring 
cannons,  garlands  and  banners,  and  shouting  multitudes.  Did  any 
one  ever  think  that  the  last  stage  of  that  life's  journey  was  to  be 
taken  in  a  hideous  tumbrel,  and  to  terminate  on  the  scaffold  ?  The 
life  of  Madame  de  Saverne  was  to  last  but  a  year  more,  and  her 
end  to  be  scarcely  less  tragical. 

Many  physicians  have  told  me  how  often  after  the  birth  of  a 
child  tlie  brain  of  a  mother  will  be  affected.  Madame  de  Saverne 
remained  for  some  time  in  this  febrile  condition,  if  not  unconscious 
of  lier  actions,  at  least  not  accountable  for  all  of  them.  At  the  end 
of  three  months  she  woke  up  as  out  of  a  dream,  having  a  dreadful 
recollection  of  the  circumstances  which  had  passed.  Under  what 
hallucinations  we  never  shall  know,  or  yielding  to  what  persuasions, 
the  wife  of  a  stern  Protestant  nobleman  had  been  to  a  Roman 
Catholic  church,  and  had  been  christened  there  with,  her  child. 
She  never  could  recall  that  step.  A  great  terror  came  over  her  as 
she  thought  of  it — a  great  terror  and  a  hatred  of  her  husband,  the 
cause  of  all  her  grief  and  her  fear.  She  began  to  look  out  lest  he 
should  return ;  she  clutched  her  child  to  her  breast,  and  barred  and 
bolted  all  doors  for  fear  people  should  rob  her  of  the  infant.  The 
Protestant  chaplain,  the  Protestant  sisters-in-law,  looked  on  Avith 
dismay  and  anxiety ;  they  thought  justly  that  Madame  de  Saverne 
was  not  yet  quite  restored  to  her  reason ;  they  consulted  the 
physicians,  who  agreed  with  them ;  who  arrived,  who  prescribed ; 
who  were  treated  by  the  patient  with  scorn,  laughter,  insult  some- 
times ;  sometimes  with  tears  and  terror,  according  to  her  wayward 
mood.  Her  condition  was  most  puzzling.  The  sisters  wrote  from 
time  to  time  guarded  reports  respecting  her  to  her  husband  in 
Corsica.  He,  for  his  part,  replied  instantly  with  volumes  of  his 
wonted  verbose  commonplace.  He  acquiesced  in  the  decrees  of 
Fate,  when  informed  that  a  daughter  was  born  to  him ;  and  pre- 
sently wrote  whole  reams  of  instructions  regarding  her  nurture, 
dress,  and  physical  and  religious  training.  The  child  was  called 
Agnes  1  He  would  have  preferred  Barbara,  as  being  his  mother's 
name.  I  remember  in  some  of  tlic  poor  gentleman's  letters  there 
were  orders  about  the  child's  pap,  and  instructions  as  to  the  nurse's 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  463 

diet.  He  was  eouiing  home  soou.  The  Corsicans  had  been  defeated 
in  every  action.  Had  he  been  a  Catholic  he  would  have  been  a 
knight  of  the  King's  orders  long  ere  this.  Monsieur  de  Viomesnil 
hoped  still  to  get  for  him  the  order  of  Military  Merit  (tiie  Protestant 
order  which  his  Majesty  had  founded  ten  years  i)reviously).  These 
letters  (which  Avere  subseiiueiitly  lost  by  an  accident  at  sea  *)  spoke 
modestly  enough  of  the  Count's  personal  adventures.  I  hold  him 
to  have  been  a  very  brave  man,  and  only  not  tedious  and  prolix 
wheu  he  spoke  of  his  own  merits  and  services. 

The  Count's  letters  succeeded  each  other  post  after  post.  The 
end  of  the  war  was  approaching,  and  with  it  his  return  was 
assured.  He  exulted  in  the  thought  of  seeing  his  child,  and  leading 
her  in  the  way  she  should  go — the  right  way,  the  true  way.  As 
the  mother's  brain  cleared,  her  terror  grew  gi-eater — her  terror 
and  loathing  of  her  husband.  She  could  not  Ix'ar  tlie  thought 
of  his  return,  or  to  face  him  with  the  confession  which  she  knew 
she  must  make.  His  wife  turn  Catholic  and  bajitize  his  child  ? 
She  felt  he  Avould  kill  her,  did  he  know  what  had  happened. 
She  went  to  the  priest  who  had  bajjtizeil  her.  Monsieur  George! 
(his  Eminence's  secretary)  knew  her  husband.  The  Prince  Cardinal 
was  so  great  and  powerful  a  prelate,  Georgel  said,  that  he  would 
protect  her  against  all  the  wrath  of  all  the  Protestants  in  France. 
I  think  she  must  have  had  intei'views  with  the  Prince  Cardinal, 
though  there  is  no  account  of  them  in  any  letter  to  my  mother. 

The  campaign  was  at  an  end.  Monsieur  de  Vaux,  Monsieur  de 
Viomesnil,  both  wrote  in  highly  eulogistic  terms  of  the  conduct 
of  the  Count  de  Saverne.  Thcii-.  good  wishes  would  attend  him 
home ;  Protestant  as  he  was,  their  best  interest  should  be  exerted 
in  his  behalf. 

The  day  of  the  Count's  return  approached.  The  day  arrived  : 
I  can  fancy  the  brave  gentleman  with  beating  heart  ascending  the 
steps  of  the  homely  lodging  where  his  family  have  been  living 
at  Strasbourg  ever  since  the  infant's  birth.  How  he  has  dreamt 
about  that  child  :  prayed  for  her  and  his  wife  at  night-watch 
and  bivouac — prayed  for  them  as  he  stood,  calm  and  devout,  in 
the  midst  of  battle.   .  .  . 

When  he  enters  the  room,  he  sees  only  two  frightened  domestics 
and  the  two  ghastly  faces  of  his  scared  old  sisters. 

"  Where  are  Clarisse  and  the  child  1 "  he  asks. 

The  child  and  the  mother  were  gone.  The  auuts  knew  not 
where. 

*  The  letters  from  Madame  dc  Savern£  to  my  mother  at  Winchelf;ea  were 
not  sutjjoct  to  this  mishap,  but  were  always  kept  by  Madame  Duval  in  her  owu 
escritoire. 


464  DENIS    DUVAL 

A  stroke  of  palsy  could  ^scarcely  have  smitten  tlie  miliap])^ 
gentleman  more  severely  than  did  the  news  which  his  trembling 
family  was  obliged  to  give  him.  In  later  days  I  saw  Monsieur 
Sclmorr,  the  German  pastor  from  Keld,  who  has  been  mentioned 
already,  and  who  was  installed  in  tlie  Count's  house  as  tutor 
and  chaplain  during  the  absence  of  the  master.  "  When  Madame 
de  Saverne  went  to  make  her  coucher  at  Strasbourg"  (Monsieur 
Schnorr  said  to  me),  "  I  retired  to  my  duties  at  Kehl,  glad  enough 
to  return  to  the  quiet  of  my  home,  for  the  noble  lady's  reception 
of  me  was  anything  but  gracious ;  and  I  had  to  endure  much 
female  sarcasm  and  many  unkind  words  from  Madame  la  Comtesse, 
whenever,  as  in  duty  bound,  I  presented  myself  at  her  table.  Sir, 
that  most  unhappy  lady  used  to  make  sport  of  me  before  her 
douiestics.  She  used  to  call  me  her  gaoler.  Slie  used  to  mimic 
my  ways  of  eating  and  drinking.  She  would  yawn  in  the  midst 
of  my  exhortations,  ami  cry  out,  '  0  que  c'est  bete  ! '  and  when 
I  gave  out  a  psalm,  would  utter  little  cries,  and  say,  '  Pardon 
me,  Monsieur  Scluiorr,  but  you  sing  so  out  of  tune  you  make 
my  head  ache ; '  so  that  I  could  scarcely  continue  that  portion  of 
the  service,  the  very  domestics  laughing  at  me  when  I  began  to 
sing.  My  life  was  a  martyrdom,  but  I  bore  my  tortures  meekly, 
out  of  a  sense  of  duty  and  my  love  for  Monsieur  le  Comte.  When 
her  Ladyship  kept  her  chamber  I  used  to  wait  almost  daily  upon 
Mesdemoiselles  the  Count's  sisters,  to  ask  news  of  her  and  her 
child.  I  christened  the  infant ;  but  her  mother  was  too  ill  to 
be  present,  and  sent  me  out  word  by  Mademoiselle  Marthe  that 
she  should  call  the  child  AgneS,  though  I  might  name  it  what 
I  please<l.  This  was  on  the  21st  January,  and  I  remember  being 
struck,  because  in  the  Roman  Calendar  the  feast  of  Saint  Agnes 
is  celebrated  on  that  day. 

"  Haggard  and  actually  grown  grey,  from  a  black  man  which  lie 
was,  my  poor  lord  came  to  me  witli  wildness  and  agony  of  grief  in 
all  his  features  and  actions,  to  announce  to  me  that  Madame  the 
Countess  had  fled,  taking  her  infant  with  her.  And  he  had  a  scrap 
of  paper  with  him,  over  which  he  wept  and  raged  as  one  demented ; 
now  pouring  out  fiercer  imprecations,  now  bursting  into  passionate 
tears  and  cries,  calling  upon  his  wife,  his  darling,  his  prodigal  to 
come  back,  to  bring  him  his  child,  when  all  should  be  forgiven. 
As  he  thus  spoke  his  screams  and  groans  were  so  piteous,  that  I 
myself  was  quite  unmanned,  and  my  mother,  who  keeps  house  for 
me  (and  who  happened  to  be  listening  at  the  door),  w\as  likewise 
gi-eatly  alarmed  by  my  ix)or  lord's  passion  of  grief.  And  when  I 
read  on  that  paper  that  my  Lady  Countess  had  left  the  faith  to 
which   our   fathers  gloriously   testified   in   the   midst   of  trouble. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    SAVERNE  465 

slaughter,  persecution,  and  'bondage,  I  was  scarcely  less  shocked 
than  my  good  lord  himself. 

"We  crossed  the  bridge  to  Strasbourg  back  again  and  went  to 
tlie  Cathedral  Churcli,  and  entering  tlun-e,  we  saw  the  Abbe'  Gcorgel 
coming  out  of  a  chapel  wliere  he  had  been  to  perform  his  devotions. 
The  Alibd,  who  knew  me,  gave  a  ghastly  smile  as  he  recognised  me, 
and  for  a  pale  man  his  cheek  blushed  up  a  little  when  I  said,  '  This 
is  Monsieur  the  Cointc  de  Saverne.' 

"'Where  is  sheV  asked  my  poor  lord,  clutching  tlie  Abbe's  arm. 

"'Who?'  asked  the  Abbe,  stepping  back  a  little. 

"'Where  is  my  child?  wliere  is  my  wife?'  cries  the  Count. 

"  '  Silence,  Monsieur  ! '  says  the  Abbd,  '  Do  you  know  in  whose 
house  you  are?'  and  the  chant  from  the  altar,  where  the  service 
was  being  performed,  came  upon  us,  and  smote  my  poor  lord  as 
though  a  shot  had  struck  him.  We  were  standing,  he  tottering 
against  a  pillar  in  the  nave,  close  by  the  christening  font,  and  over 
my  Lord's  head  was  a  picture  of  Saint  Agnes. 

"  The  agony  of  the  poor  gentleman  could  not  but  touch  any  one 
who  witnessed  it.  '  Monsieur  le  Comte,'  says  the  Abbe,  '  I  feel  for 
you.  This  great  surprise  has  come  u])on  you  unprepared — I — I 
pray  that  it  may  be  for  your  good.' 

"'You  know,  then,  what  has  hap})cned?'  asked  Monsieur  de 
Saverne;  and  tlio  Abbe  was  obliged  to  stammer  a  confession  that 
he  did  kno.v  what  had  occurred.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  very  man 
who  had  performed  tlie  rite  which  separated  my  unhappy  lady  from 
the  Church  of  her  fathers. 

"  '  Sir,'  he  said,  with  some  spirit,  *  this  was  a  service  which  no 
clergyman  could  refuse.  I  would  to  Heaven,  Monsieur,  that  you, 
too,  might  be  brought  to  ask  it  from  me.' 

"The  poor  Count,  with  desjjair  in  his  face,  asked  to  see  the 
register  which  confirmed  the  news,  and  there  we  saw  that,  on  the 
21st  January  1769,  being  the  Feast  of  Saint  Agnes,  the  noble 
lady,  Clarisse,  Countess  of  Saverne,  born  De  Viomesnil,  aged  twenty- 
two  years,  and  Agnes,  only  daughter  of  the  same  Count  of  Saverne 
and  Clarisse  his  wife,  were  baptized  and  received  into  the  Church 
in  the  presence  of  two  witnesses  (clerics)  whose  names  were  signed. 

"  The  poor  Count  knelt  over  the  registry-book  with  an  awful 
grief  in  his  face,  and  in  a  mood  which  I  heartily  pitied.  He  bent 
down  uttering  what  seemed  an  imprecation  rather  than  a  prayer, 
and  at  this  moment  it  chanced  the  service  at  the  chief  altar  was 
concluded,  and  Monseigneur  and  his  suite  of  clergy  came  into  the 
sacristy.  Sir,  the  Count  de  Saverne,  starting  up,  clutching  his 
sword  in  his  hand,  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the  Cardinal,  uttered  a 
wild  speech  calling  down  imprecations  upon  tlie  Church  of  which 

30 


465  DENIS    DUVAL 

the  Prince  was  a  chief :  '  Where  is  my  lamb  that  you  have  taken 
from  me  1 '  he  said,  using  the  language  of  the  Prophet  towards  tlie 
King  who  had  despoiled  him. 

"  The  Cardinal  haughtily  said  the  conversion  of  Madame  de 
Saverne  was  of  Heaven,  and  no  act  of  his,  and  adding,  'Bad 
neighbour  as  you  have  been  to  me,  sir,  I  wish  you  so  well  that  I 
hope  you  may  follow  her.' 

"  At  this  the  Count,  losing  all  patience,  made  a  violent  attack 
upon  the  Churcli  of  Rome,  denounced  tlie  Cardinal,  and  called  down 
maledictions  upon  his  head ;  said  that  a  day  would  come  when  his 
abominable  pride  should  meet  with  a  punishment  and  fall ;  and 
spoke  as,  in  fact,  the  poor  gentleman  was  able  to  do  only  too 
readily  and  volubly,  against  Rome  and  all  its  errors. 

"  The  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  replied  with  no  little  dignity,  as 
I  own.  He  said  that  such  words  in  such  a  place  were  offensive  and 
out  of  all  reason  ;  that  it  only  depended  on  him  to  have  Monsieur 
de  Saverne  arrested  and  punished  for  blasphemy  and  insult  to  the 
Church :  but  that,  pitying  the  Count's  unhappy  condition,  the 
Cardinal  would  forget  the  hasty  and  insolent  words  he  had  uttered — ■ 
as  he  would  know  how  to  defend  Madame  de  Saverne  and  her  child 
after  the  righteous  step  which  she  hatl  taken.  And  he  swept  out  of 
the  sacristy  with  his  suite,  and  passed  through  the  door  which  leads 
into  his  palace,  leaving  my  poor  Count  still  in  his  despair  and  fury. 

"  As  he  spoke,  with  those  Scripture  phrases  which  Monsieur  de 
Saverne  ever  had  at  command,  I  remember  how  the  Prince  Cardinal 
tossed  up  his  head  and  smiled.  I  wonder  whether  he  thought  of 
the  words  when  his  own  day  of  disgrace  came,  and  the  fatal  affair 
of  the  diamond  necklace  which  brought  him  to  ruin."  * 

"  Not  without  difficulty "  (Monsieur  Schnorr  resumed)  "  I 
induced  the  poor  Count  to  quit  the  church  where  his  wife's  apostasy 
had  been  performed.  The  outer  gates  and  walls  are  decorated  with 
numberless  sculptures  of  saints  of  the  Roman  Calendar :  and  for  a 
minute  or  two  the  poor  man  stood  on  the  threshold  shouting  im- 
precations in  the  sunshine,  and  calling  down  woe  upon  France  and 
Rome.  I  hurried  him  away.  Such  language  was  dangerous,  and 
could  bring  no  good  to  either  of  us.  He  was  almost  a  madman, 
when  I  conducted  him  back  to  his  home,  where  the  ladies  his 
sisters,  scared  with  iiis  wild  looks,  besought  ine  not  to  leave  him. 

"  Again  he  went  into  the  room  which  his  wife  and  child  had 
inhabited,  and,  as  he  looked  at  the  relics  of  both  which  still  were 

*  My  informant,  Protestant  though  he  was,  did  not,  as  I  remember,  speak 
with  very  niuch  asperity  against  the  Prince  Cardinal.  He  said  that  the  Prince 
lived  an  edifying  life  after  his  fall,  succouring  the  poor,  and  doing  everything 
in  his  power  to  defend  the  cause  of  royalty. — D.  D. 


THE    HOUSE    OF   SAVERNE  467 

left  there,  gave  way  to  Imrsts  of  grief  which  were  pitiable  indeed  to 
witness.  I  speak  of  what  happened  near  forty  years  ago,  and  re- 
member the  scene  as  tiiough  yesterday  :  the  passionate  agony  of 
the  poor  gentleman,  the  sol^s  and  prayei-s.  On  a  chest  of  drawers 
there  was  a  little  cap  belonging  to  the  infant.  He  seized  it :  kissed 
it :  wept  over  it :  calling  upon  the  mother  to  bring  the  child  back 
and  he  would  forgive  all.  He  thrust  the  little  cap  into  his  breast : 
opened  every  drawer,  book,  and  closet,  seeking  for  some  indications 
of  the  fugitives.  My  oi)inion  was,  and  that  even  of  the  ladies, 
sisters  of  Monsieur  le  Comte,  that  Madame  had  taken  refuge  in 
a  convent  with  the  child ;  that  the  Cardinal  knew  where  she  was, 
poor  and  friendless ;  and  that  the  Protestant  gentleman  would  in 
vain  seek  for  her.  Perhaps  when  tired  of  tliat  place — I  for  my 
part  thought  Madame  la  Comtesse  a  light-minded  wilful  person, 
who  certainly  had  no  vocation,  as  the  Catholics  call  it,  for  a  religious 
life — I  thought  she  might  come  out  after  a  while,  and  gave  my 
patron  such  consolation  as  I  could  devise,  upon  this  faint  hope. 
He  who  was  all  forgiveness  at  one  minute,  was  all  wrath  the  next. 
He  would  rather  see  his  child  dead  tlian  receive  her  as  a  Catholic. 
He  would  go  to  the  King,  surrounded  by  harlots  as  he  was,  and 
ask  for  justice.  There  were  still  Protestant  gentlemen  left  in 
France  whose  spirit  was  not  altogether  trodden  down,  and  tbey 
would  back  him  in  demanding  reparation  for  this  outrage. 

"  I  had  some  vague  suspi(;ion,  whicii,  however,  I  dismissed  from 
my  mind  as  unworthy,  that  there  might  be  a  third  party  cognisant 
of  Madame's  flight ;  and  this  was  a  gentleman,  once  a  great  favourite 
of  Monsieur  le  Comte,  and  in  wlioni  I  myself  was  not  a  little 
interested.  Three  or  four  days  after  the  Comte  de  Saverne  went 
away  to  the  war,  as  I  was  meditating  on  a  sermon  which  I  pro])osed 
to  deliver,  walking  at  the  back  of  my  Lord's  house  of  Saverne,  in 
the  fields  which  skirt  the  wood  Avhere  the  Prince  Cardinal's  great 
Schloss  stands,  I  saw  this  gentleman  with  a  gun  over  his  shoulder, 
and  recognised  him — the  Ciievalier  de  la  Motte,  the  very  person 
who  had  saved  the  life  of  Monsieur  de  Saverne  in  the  campaign 
against  the  English. 

"  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  said  he  was  staying  with  the  Cardinal, 
and  trusted  that  the  ladies  of  Saverne  were  well.  He  sent  his 
respectful  compliments  to  them  :  in  a  laughing  way  said  he  had 
been  denied  the  door  when  he  came  to  a  visit,  which  he  thought 
was  an  unkind  act  towards  an  old  comrade ;  and  at  the  same  time 
expressed  his  sorrow  at  the  Count's  departure — '  for,  Herr  Pfarrer,' 
said  he,  '  you  know  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  and  in  many  most  im- 
portant conversations  which  I  had  witli  the  Comte  de  Saverne,  the 
differences  between  our  two  Churches  was  the  subject  of  our  talk. 


468  DENIS    DUVAL 

and  I  do  think  I  should  have  converted  him  to  ouis.'  I,  Inunble 
vilhige  pastor  as  I  am,  was  not  afraid  to  speak  in  such  a  cause, 
and  we  straightway  had  a  most  interesting  conversation  togetlier, 
in  which,  as  the  gentleman  showed,  I  .had  not  the  worst  of  the 
argument.  It  appeared  he  had  been  educated  for  the  Roman 
Church,  but  afterwards  entered  the  army.  He  was  a  most  interest 
ing  man,  and  his  name  was  Le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte.  You  look 
as  if  you  had  known  him,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine — will  it  please  you 
to  replenish  your  pipe,  and  take  another  glass  of  my  beer  1 " 

I  said  I  had  effectivement  known  Monsieur  de  la  Motte ;  and 
the  good  old  clergyman  (witli  many  compliments  to  me  for  speaking 
French  and  German  so  glibly)  proceeded  with  his  artless  narrative : 
"  I  was  ever  a  poor  horseman  :  and  when  I  came  to  be  chaplain 
and  major-domo  at  the  Hotel  de  Saverne,  in  the  Count's  absence, 
Madame  more  than  once  rode  entirely  away  from  mc,  saying  that 
she  could  not  afford  to  go  at  my  clerical  jog-trot.  And  being  in  a 
scarlet  araazon,  and  a  conspicuous  object,  you  see,  I  thought  I  saw 
her  at  a  distance  talking  to  a  gentleman  on  a  schimmel  horse,  in  a 
grass-green  coat.  When  I  asked  her  to  whom  she  spoke,  she  said, 
'  Monsieur  le  Pasteur,  you  radotez  with  your  grey  horse  and  your 
green  coat !  If  you  are  set  to  be  a  spy  over  me,  ride  faster,  or  bring 
out  the  old  ladies  to  bark  at  your  side.'  The  fact  is,  the  Countess 
was  for  ever  quarrelling  with  those  old  ladies,  and  they  were  a 
yelping  ill-natured  pair.  They  treated  me,  a  pastor  of  the  Reformed 
Churcli  of  the  Augsburg  Confession,  as  no  better  than  a  lacquey, 
sir,  and  made  me  eat  the  bread  of  humiliation ;  whereas  Madame  la 
Comtesse,  though  often  haughty,  flighty,  and  passionate,  could  also 
be  so  winning  and  gentle,  tliat  no  one  could  resist  her.  Ah  sir ! " 
said  the  pastor,  "  that  Avoman  had  a  coaxing  way  with  her  when  she 
chose,  and  when  lier  fliglit  came  I  was  in  such  a  way  that  the  jealous 
old  sisters-in-law  said  I  was  in  love  with  her  myself.  Pfui !  For  a 
month  before  my  Lord's  arrival  I  had  been  knocking  at  all  doors  to 
see  if  I  could  find  my  poor  wandering  lady  behind  them.  She,  her 
child,  and  Martha  her  maid,  were  gone,  and  we  knew  not  whitlier. 

"  On  that  very  first  day  of  his  unhappy  arrival,  Monsieur  le 
Comte  discovered  wliat  his  sisters,  jealous  and  curious  as  they  were, 
what  I,  a  man  of  no  inconsiderable  acumen,  had  failed  to  note. 
Amongst  torn  papers  and  cliiffons,  in  her  Ladyship's  bureau,  there 
was  a  scrap  with  one  line  in  her  handwriting — *  Ursule,  Ursule,  le 
tyran  rev '  and  no  more. 

" '  Ah  ! '  Monsieur  le  Comte  said,  *  she  is  gone  to  her  foster- 
sister  in  England  y  Quick,  quick,  horses  ! '  And  before  two  hours 
were  passed  he  was  on  horseback,  making  the  first  stage  of  that 
long  journey." 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    TRAVELLERS 

THE  poor  ;;c;ill(<iiian  was  in  such  haste  that  the  old  proverl\ 
was  i-eaHsecl  in  his  case,  and  his  journey  was  anything  but 
si)cedy.  At  Nanci  he  fell  ill  of  a  fever,  which  had  nearly 
carried  him  off,  and  in  which  he  unceasingly  raved  about  his  cliild, 
and  called  upon  his  faithless  wife  to  return  h^r.  Almost  before 
he  was  convalescent,  he  was  on  liis  way  again,  to  Boulogne,  where 
he  saw  tliat  English  coast  on  whicii  he  rightly  conjectured  his 
fugitive  wife  was  sheltered. 

And  here,  from  my  boyish  remembrance,  which,  respecting 
tliese  early  days,  remains  extraordinarily  clear,  I  can  take  up  the 
story,  in  whicli  I  was  myself  a  very  young  actor,  playing  in  the 
strange,  fantastic,  often  terrible,  drama  which  ensued  a  imt 
insignificant  part.  As  I  survey  it  now,  the  curtain  is  down,  and 
the  play  long  over  ;  as  I  tliink  of  its  sui-prises,  disguises,  mysteries, 
escapes,  and  dangers,  I  am  amazed  myself,  and  sometimes  inclined 
to  be  almost  as  gi-eat  a  fjitalist  as  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  who  vowed 
that  a  superior  Power  ruled  our  actions  for  us,  and  declared  that 
he  could  no  more  prevent  his  destiny  from  accomplishing  itself, 
than  he  could  prevent  his  hair  from  growing.  What  a  destiny  it 
was  !     What  a  fatal  tragedy  was  now  al)Out  to  begin  ! 

One  evening  in  our  Midsummer  holidays,  in  the  year  1769,  1 
remember  being  seated  in  my  little  chair  at  home,  with  a  tempest 
of  rain  beating  down  the  street.  We  liad  customers  on  most 
evenings,  l)ut  there  happened  to  be  none  on  tliis  night ;  and 
I  remember  I  was  puzzling  over  a  bit  of  Latin  grammar,  to 
Avhich  Mother  used  to  keep  me  stoutly  when  I  came  home  from 
school. 

It  is  fifty  years  since.*  I  have  forgotten  who  knows  how 
many  events  of  my  life,  which  are  not  much  worth  the  remember- 
ing ;  but  I  have  as  clearly  before  my  eyes  now  a  little  scene 
which  occurred  on  tins  momentous  night,  as  though  it  had  been 
acted  within  this  hour.  As  we  are  sitting  at  our  various  employ- 
ments, we  hear  steps  coming  up  the  street,  wliich  was'  empty,  and 

*  The  narrative  seems  to  have  been  written  about  the  year  1820. 


470  DENIS    DUYAL 

silent  but  for  tke  noise  of  the  wind  and  rain.  We  hear  steps — 
several  steps — along  the  pavement,  and  tliey  stop  at  our  door. 

"  Madame  Duval !     It  is  Gregson  !  "  cries  a  voice  from  without. 

"  Ah,  bon  Dieu  ! "  says  Mother,  starting  up  and  turning  quite 
white. 

And  tlien  I  heard  the  cry  of  an  infant.  Dear  heart !  How 
well  I  remember  tliat  little  cry  ! 

As  the  door  opens,  a  great  gust  of  wind  sets  our  two  candles 
flickering,  and  I  see  enter — 

A  gentleman  giving  his  arm  to  a  lady  who  is  veiled  in  cloaks 
and  wraps,  an  attendant  carrying  a  crying  child,  and  Gregson  the 
boatman  after  them. 

My  mother  gives  a  great  hoarse  shriek,  and  crying  out, 
"  Clarisse  !  Clarisse  !"  rushes  up  to  the  lady,  and  hugs  and  embraces 
her  passionately.  The  child  cries  and  wails.  The  nurse  strives  to 
soothe  the  infant.  The  gentleman  takes  oft'  his  hat  and  wrings  the 
wet  from  it,  and  looks  at  me.  It  was  then  I  felt  a  strange  shock 
and  terror.  I  have  felt  the  same  shock  once  or  twice  in  my  life ; 
and  once  notably,  the  person  so  affecting  me  has  been  my  enemy, 
and  has  come  to  a  dismal  end. 

"  We  have  had  a  verj^  rough  voyage,"  says  the  gentleman  (in 
French)  to  my  grandfather.  "We  have  been  fourteen  hours  at  sea. 
Madame  has  suffered  greatly,  and  is  much  exhausted." 

"  Thy  rooms  are  ready,"  says  Mother  fondly.  "  My  poor 
Biche,  tliou  shalt  sleep  in  comfort  to-night,  and  need  fear  nothing, 
nothing ! " 

A  few  days  before  I  had  seen  Mother  and  her  servant  mightily 
busy  in  preparing  the  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  and  decorating  them. 
When  I  asked  whom  she  was  expecting,  she  boxed  my  ears,  and 
bade  me  be  quiet ;  but  tliese  were  evidently  the  expected  visitors  ; 
and,  of  course,  from  the  names  which  Mother  used,  I  knew  that  the 
lady  was  the  Countess  of  Saverne. 

"And  this  is  thy  son,  Ursule?"  says  the  lady.  "He  is  a  great 
boy  !     My  little  wretch  is  always  crying." 

"  Oh,  the  little  darling  !  "  says  Mother,  seizing  the  child,  which 
fell  to  crying  louder  than  ever,  "  scared  by  tlie  nodding  plume  and 
bristling  crest "  of  Madame  Duval,  who  wore  a  great  cap  in  those 
days,  and  indeed  looked  as  fierce  as  any  Hector. 

When  the  i)ale  lady  spoke  so  harshly  about  the  child,  I  remember 
myself  feeling  a  sort  of  surprise  and  disjtleasure.  Indeed,  I  have 
loved  children  all  my  life,  and  am  a  fool  about  them  (as  witness  my 
treatment  of  my  own  rascal),  and  no  one  can  say  that  I  was  ever 
a  tyrant  at  scliool,  or  ever  fought  there  except  to  hold  my  own. 

My  mother  produced  what  food  was  in  the  house,  and  welcomed 


THE    TRAVELLERS  471 

her  guests  to  her  humble  table.  What  trivial  things  remain  im- 
pressed on  the  memory  !  I  remember  laughing  in  my  boyish  way 
because  the  lady  said,  "Ah!  c'est  (^a  du  thd?  je  n'en  ai  jamais 
go<ltd  Mais  c'est  trfes  mauvais,  n'est-ce  pas,  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  1 " 
I  suppose  they  had  not  learned  to  drink  tea  in  Alsace  yet.  Mother 
stopped  my  laughing  with  her  usual  apjjeal  to  my  ears.  I  was 
daily  receiving  that  sort  of  correction  from  the  good  soul.  Grand- 
father said,  if  Madame  the  Countess  would  lilve  a  little  tasse  of  real 
Nantes  brandy  after  her  voyage,  he  could  supply  her,  but  she  would 
have  none  of  tliat  either,  and  retired  soon  to  her  chamber,  which 
had  been  prepared  for  her  with  my  mother's  best  sheets  and  diapers, 
and  in  which  was  a  bed  for  her  maid  Martha,  who  had  retired  to  it 
with  the  little  crying  child.  For  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte 
an  apartment  was  taken  at  Mr.  Billis's  the  baker's,  down  the  street : 
— a  friend  who  gave  me  many  a  plum-cake  in  my  childhood,  and 
whose  wigs  Grandfather  dressed,  if  you  must  know  the  truth. 

At  morning  and  evening  we  used  to  have  prayers,  which  Grand- 
father spoke  with  nuich  eloquence  ;  but  on  this  niglit,  as  he  took 
out  his  great  Bible,  and  was  for  having  me  read  a  chapter,  my 
mother  said,  "  No.  Tliis  poor  Clarisse  is  fatigued,  and  will  go  to 
bed."  And  to  bed  accordingly  the  stranger  went.  And  as  I  read 
my  little  chapter,  I  remember  how  tears  fell  down  Mother's  cheeks, 
and  how  she  cried,  "All,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu  !  ayez  pitie  d'elle," 
and  when  I  was  going  to  sing  our  evening  hymn,  "  Nun  ruhen  alle 
Wiilder,"  she  told  me  to  hush.  Madame  ujistairs  was  tired,  and 
wanted  to  sleep.  And  she  went  upstairs  to  look  after  Madame,  and 
bade  me  be  a  little  guide  to  the  strange  gentleman,  and  show  him 
the  way  to  Billis's  house.  Off  I  went,  prattling  by  his  side ;  I 
daresay  I  soon  forgot  the  terror  which  I  felt  when  I  first  saw  him. 
You  may  be  sure  all  Winchelsea  knew  tliat  a  French  lady,  and  her 
child,  and  her  maid,  were  come  to  stay  with  Madame  Duval,  and  a 
French  gentleman  to  lodge  over  the  baker's 

I  never  shall  forget  my  terror  and  astonishment  when  Mother 
told  me  that  this  lady  who  came  to  us  was  a  Papist.  Tliere  were 
two  gentlemen  of  that  religion  living  in  our  town,  at  a  handsome 
house  called  the  Priory ;  but  they  had  little  to  do  with  persons  in 
my  parents'  humble  walk  of  life,  though  of  course  my  mother  would 
dress  Mrs.  Weston's  head  as  well  as  any  other  lady's.  I  forgot 
also  to  say  that  Mrs.  Duval  went  out  sometimes  as  ladies'  nurse, 
and  in  that  capacity  had  attended  Mrs.  AVeston,  who,  however,  lost 
her  child.  The  Westons  had  a  cliaiiel  in  their  house,  in  the  old 
grounds  of  the  Priory,  and  clergymen  of  tlieir  persuasion  used  to 
come  over  from  my  Lord  Ncwburgh's  of  Slindon,  or  from  Arundel, 
where  there  is  another  great  Pai)ist  house ;  and  one  or  two  Roman 


472  DENIS    DUVAL 

Catholics — there  were  very  few  of  them  in  our  town — were  buried 
in  a  part  of  the  old  gardens  of  the  Priory,  where  a  monks'  burying- 
place  had  been  before  Harry  VIII.'s  time. 

The  new  gentleman  was  the  first  Papist  to  whom  I  had  evei 
spoken ;  and  as  I  trotted  about  the  town  with  him,  showing  him 
the  old  gates,  the  cliureh,  and  so  forth,  I  remember  saying  to  him, 
"  And  have  you  burned  any  Protestants  1 " 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  says  he,  giving  a  horrible  grin,  "  I  have  roasted 
several,  and  eaten  them  afterwards."  And  I  shrank  back  from  him, 
and  his  pale  grinning  face  ;  feeling  once  more  that  terror  which  had 
come  over  me  when  I  first  beheld  him.  He  was  a  queer  gentleman  ; 
he  was  amused  by  my  simplicity  and  odd  sayings.  He  was  never 
tired  of  having  me  with  him.  He  said  I  should  be  his  little  English 
master ;  and  indeed  he  learned  the  language  surprisingly  quick, 
whereas  poor  Madame  de  Saverne  never  understood  a  word  of  it. 

She  was  very  ill — pale,  witli  a  red  spot  on  either  cheek,  sitting 
for  whole  hours  in  silence,  and  looking  round  frightened,  as  if  a 
prey  to  some  terror.  I  have  seen  my  mother  watching  her,  and 
looking  almost  as  scared  as  the  Countess  herself.  At  times,  Madame 
could  not  bear  the  crying  of  the  child,  and  would  order  it  away 
from  her.  At  otlier  times,  slie  would  clutch  it,  cover  it  with  cloaks, 
and  lock  her  door,  and  herself  into  the  chamber  with  her  infant. 
She  used  to  walk  about  the  house  of  a  night.  I  had  a  little  room 
near  Mother's,  which  I  occupied  during  the  holidays,  and  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays,  when  I  came  over  from  Rye.  I  remember  quite 
well  waking  up  one  night  and  hearing  Madame's  voice  at  Mother's 
door,  crying  out,  "  Ursula,  Ursula !  quick !  horses !  I  must  go 
away.  He  is  coming ;  I  know  he  is  coming ! "  And  then  there 
were  remonstrances  on  Mother's  part,  and  Madame's  maid  came  out 
of  her  room,  Avith  entreaties  to  her  mistress  to  return.  At  the  cry 
of  the  child  the  poor  mother  would  rush  away  from  whatever  place 
she  was  in,  and  hurry  to  the  infant.  Not  that  she  loved  it.  At 
the  next  moment  she  would  cast  the  child  down  on  the  bed,  and  go 
to  the  window  again,  and  look  to  the  sea.  For  hours  she  sat  at 
that  window,  with  a  curtain  twisted  round  her,  as  if  hiding  from 
some  one.  Ah  !  how  have  I  looked  up  at  that  window  since,  and 
the  light  twinkling  here !  I  wonder  does  the  house  remain  yet  ? 
I  don't  like  now  to  think  of  the  passionate  grief  I  have  passed 
through,  as  I  looked  up  to  yon  glimmering  lattice. 

It  was  evident  our  poor  visitor  Avas  in  a  deplorable  condition. 
The  apothecary  used  to  come  and  shake  his  head,  and  order  medi- 
cine. The  medicine  did  little  good.  The  sleeplessness  continued. 
She  was  a  prey  to  constant  fever.  She  would  make  incoherent 
answers  to  questions  put  to  her,  laugh  and  weep  at  odd  times  and 


THE    TRAVELLERS  473 

places ;  push  her  meals  away  from  her,  though  they  were  the  best 
my  poor  mother  could  supply ;  order  my  grandfather  to  go  and  sit 
in  tlie  kitchen,  and  not  have  the  impudence  to  sit  down  before  her ; 
coax  and  scold  my  mother  by  turns,  and  take  her  up  very  sharjjly 
when  she  rebuked  me.  Poor  Madame  Duval  was  sctireil  by  lier 
foster-sister.  She,  who  ruled  everybody,  became  humble  before  the 
poor  crazy  lady.  I  can  see  tliem  both  now :  the  lady  in  wliite, 
listless  and  silent  as  she  would  sit  for  hours  taking  notice  of  no  one, 
and  Mother  watching  her  with  terrified  dark  eyes. 

The  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  had  liis  lodgings,  and  came  and  went 
between  his  house  and  ours.  I  thought  he  was  the  lady's  cousin. 
He  used  to  call  himself  her  cousin  :  I  did  not  know  what  our  pastor 
Monsieur  Borel  meant  when  he  came  to  Mother  one  day,  and  said, 
"  Fi,  done,  what  a  pretty  business  tliou  liast  commenced,  Madame 
Denis — thou,  an  elder's  daugliter  of  our  Church  !  " 

"  What  business  1 "  says  Mother. 

"  That  of  liarbouriug  crime  and  slielteriug  iniquity,"  says  he, 
naming  the  crime,  viz.  No.  7  of  the  Decalogue. 

Being  a  cliild,  I  did  not  then  understand  the  word  he  used. 
But  as  soon  as  lie  had  spoken.  Mother,  taking  uj?  a  saucepan  of 
soup,  cries  out,  "Get  out  of  there,  Monsieui-,  all  pastor  as  ytni  are, 
or  I  will  send  this  soup  at  thy  ugly  head,  and  the  sauce])an  after- 
wards." And  she  looked  so  fierce,  that  I  am  not  surprised  the  little 
man  trotted  off. 

Shortly  afterwards  Grandfather  comes  home,  looking  almost  as 
frightened  as  his  commanding  officer,  Monsieur  Borel.  Grandfather 
expostulated  with  his  daugliter-in-law.  He  was  in  a  great  agitation. 
He  wondereil  how  she  could  speak  so  to  the  pastor  of  tlie  churcli. 
"All  the  town,"  says  he,  "is  talking  about  you  and  this  unhajtpy 
lady." 

"All  the  town  is  an  old  woman,"  replies  Madame  Duval, 
stamping  her  foot,  and  twisting  her  moustache,  I  might  say, 
almost.  "  What  *?  These  white-beaks  of  French  cry  out  because 
I  receive  my  foster-sister  ?  What  ?  It  is  wrong  to  shelter  a  poor 
foolish  dying  woman?  Oh,  tlie  cowards,  the  cowards!  Listen, 
petit-papa :  if  you  hear  a  word  said  at  tlie  club  against  your  hru, 
and  do  not  knock  the  man  down,  I  will."  And,  faith,  I  think 
Grandfather's  hru  would  have  kept  lier  word. 

I  fear  my  own  unlucky  simplicity  brought  part  of  the  opprobrium 
down  upon  my  jioor  mother,  which  she  liad  now  to  suffer  in  our 
French  colony ;  for  one  day  a  neighbour,  Madame  Crochu  by  name, 
stepping  in  and  asking,  "  How  is  your  boarder,  and  how  is  her 
cousin  the  Count  1 " 

"Madame  Clarisse  is  no  better  than  before,"  said  I  (shaking 


474  DENIS    DUVAL 

my  head  wisely),  "and  the  gentleman  is  not  a  count,  and  he  is  not 
her  cousin,  Madame  Crochu  !  " 

"Oh,  he  is  no  relation?"  says  the  mantua-niaker.  And  that 
story  was  quickly  told  over  the  little  town,  and  when  we  went  to 
church  next  Sunday,  Monsieur  Borel  preached  a  sermon  which  made 
all  the  congregation  look  to  us,  and  poor  Mother  sat  boiling  red  like 
a  lobster  fresh  out  of  the  pot.  I  did  not  quite  know  what  I  had 
done  :  I  know  what  Mother  was  giving  me  for  my  pains,  when  our 
poor  patient,  entering  the  room,  hearing,  I  suppose,  the  hissing  of 
the  stick  (and  never  word  from  me — I  used  to  bite  a  bullet,  and 
hold  my  tongue),  rushed  into  the  room,  whisked  the  cane  out  of 
Mother's  hand,  flung  her  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  with  a 
strength  quite  surprising,  and  clasped  me  up  in  her  arms  and  began 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  and  glaring  at  Mother.  "  Strike 
your  own  child,  monster,  monster  !  "  says  the  poor  lady.  "  Kneel 
down  and  ask  pardon  :  or,  as  sure  as  I  am  the  queen,  I  will  order 
your  head  off!  " 

At  dinner,  she  ordered  me  to  come  and  sit  by  her.  "  Bishop  !  " 
she  said  to  Grandfother,  "my  lady  of  honour  has  been  naughty. 
She  whij)ped  the  little  prince  with  a  scorpion.  I  took  it  from  her 
hand.  Duke  !  if  she  does  it  again,  there  is  a  sword  :  I  desire  you 
to  cut  the  Countess's  head  off !  "  And  then  she  took  a  carving-knife 
and  waved  it,  and  gave  one  of  her  laughs,  which  always  set  poor 
Mother  a-crying.  She  used  to  call  us  dukes  and  princes— I  don't 
know  what^poor  soul !  It  was  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  whom 
she  generally  styled  duke,  holding  out  her  hand,  and  saying,  "  Kneel, 
sir,  kneel,  and  kiss  our  Royal  hand."  And  Monsieur  de  la  Motte 
would  kneel  with  a  sad  sad  flice,  and  go  through  this  hapless 
ceremony.  As  for  Grandfather,  who  was  very  bald,  and  without 
his  wig,  being  one  evening  below  her  window  culling  a  salad  in  his 
garden,  she  beckoned  him  to  her  smiling,  and  when  the  poor  old 
man  came,  she  upset  a  dish  of  tea  over  his  bald  pate  and  said,  "  I 
appoint  you  and  anoint  you  Bishop  of  Saint  Denis  ! " 

The  Avoman  Martha,  who  had  been  the  companion  of  the 
Countess  de  Saverne  in  her  unfortunate  flight  from  home  —  I 
believe  that  since  the  birth  of  her  child  the  poor  lady  had  never 
been  in  her  riglit  senses  at  all — broke  down  under  the  ceaseless 
watching  and  care  her  mistress's  condition  necessitated,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  found  her  duties  yet  more  painful  and  difficult  when  a 
second  mistress,  and  a  very  harsli,  imperious,  and  jealous  one,  was 
set  over  her  in  the  person  of  worthy  Madame  Duval.  My  mother 
was  for  ordering  everybody  who  would  subinit  to  her  orders,  and 
entirely  managing  the  affairs  of  all  those  whom  she  loved.  She 
put  the  mother  to  bed,  and  the  baby  in  her  cradle ;  slie  prepared 


THE    TRAVELLERS  475 

food  for  both  of  them,  dressed  one  and  the  other  with  an  equal 
afiection,  and  loved  that  unconscious  mother  and  child  with  a 
passionate  devotion.  But  she  loved  her  own  way,  was  jealous  of 
all  who  came  between  her  and  the  objects  of  her  love,  and  no  doubt 
led  her  subordinates  an  uncomfortable  life. 

Three  months  of  Madame  Duval  tired  out  the  Countess's 
Alsatian  maid,  Martha.  She  revolted  and  said  she  would  go  home. 
Mother  said  slie  was  an  ungrateful  wretch,  but  was  delighted  to  get 
rid  of  her.  She  always  averred  the  woman  stole  articles  of  dress, 
and  trinkets,  and  laces,  belonging  to  her  mistress,  before  she  left 
us :  and  in  an  evil  hour  this  wretched  Martha  went  away.  I 
believe  she  really  loved  her  mistress,  and  would  iiave  loved  the 
child,  had  my  mother's  rigid  arms  not  pushed  her  from  its  cot. 
Poor  little  innocent,  in  what  tragic  gloom  did  thy  life  begin  !  But 
an  unseen  Power  was  guarding  that  helpless  innocence :  and  sure  a 
good  angel  watched  it  in  its  hour  of  danger ! 

So  Madame  Duval  turned  Martha  out  of  her  tent  as  Sarah 
thrust  out  Hagar.  Are  women  pleased  after  doing  these  pretty 
tricks  1  Your  ladyships  know  best.  Madame  D.  not  only  thrust 
out  Martha,  but  flung  stones  after  Martha  all  her  life.  She  went 
away,  not  blameless  perhaps,  but  wounded  to  the  quick  with  the 
ingi'atitude  which  had  been  shown  to  her,  and  a  link  in  that 
mysterious  chain  of  destiny  which  was  binding  all  these  people — 
me  the  boy  of  seven  years  old ;  yonder  little  speechless  infant  of 
as  many  months ;  that  poor  wandering  lady  bereft  of  reason ;  that 
dark  inscrutable  companion  of  hers  who  brought  evil  with  him 
wherever  he  came. 

From  Dungeness  to  Boulogne  is  but  six-and-tliirty  miles,  and 
our  boats,  when  war  was  over,  were  constantly  making  journeys 
there.  Even  in  war-time  the  little  harmless  craft  left  each  other 
alone,  and,  I  suspect,  carried  on  a  great  deal  of  peaceable  and 
fraudulent  trade  together.  Grandfather  had  share  of  a  "fishing" 
boat  with  one  Thomas  Gregson  of  Lydd.  When  Martha  was 
determined  to  go,  one  of  our  boats  was  ready  to  take  her  to  the 
place  from  whence  she  came,  or  transfer  her  to  a  French  boat, 
which  would  return  into  its  own  harbour.*  She  was  carried  back 
to  Boulogne  and  landed.  I  know  the  day  full  well  from  a  document 
now  before  me,  of  which  the  dismal  writing  and  signing  were 
occasioned  by  that  very  landing. 

As  she  stepped  out  from  the  pier  (a  crowd  of  people,  no  doubt, 
tearing  the  poor  wretch's  slender  luggage  from  her  to  carry  it  to 

*  There  were  points  for  which  our  boats  used  to  make,  and  meet  the 
French  boats  when  not  disturbed,  and  do  a  good  deal  more  business  than  I 
could  then  understand. — D.  D. 


476  DENIS    DUVAL 

the  Ciistoms)  almost  the  first  person  on  whom  the  woman's  eyes 
fell  was  her  master  the  Count  de  Saverne,  He  had  actually  only 
reached  the  place  on  that  very  day,  and  walked  the  pier,  looking 
towards  England,  as  many  a  man  has  done  from  the  same  spot, 
when  he  saw  the  servant  of  his  own  wife  come  up  the  side  of 
the  pier. 

He  rushed  to  her,  as  she  started  back  screaming  and  almost 
fainting,  but  the  crowd  of  beggars  behind  her  prevented  her  retreat. 
"  The  child — does  the  child  live  1 "  asked  the  poor  Count,  in  the 
German  tongue,  wliich  both  spoke. 

The  child  was  well.  Thank  God,  thank  God  !  The  poor  father's 
heart  was  freed  that  teri-or,  then  !  I  can  fancy  the  gentleman  saying, 
"  Your  mistress  is  at  Winchelsea,  with  her  foster-sister  1 " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

"Tlxe  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  is  always  at  Winchelsea  1 " 

*'  Ye — oh,  no,  no,  Monsieur  le  Comte  !  " 

"  Silence,  liar  !  He  made  the  journey  with  her.  They  stopped 
at  the  same  inns.  Monsieur  le  Brun,  merchant,  aged  34 ;  his 
sister,  Ma<lame  Dubois,  aged  24,  with  a  female  infant  in  her  arms, 
and  a  maid,  left  this  port,  on  20th  April,  in  the  English  fishing- 
boat  Mary,  of  Rye.  Before  embarking  they  slept  at  the  '  Ecu  de 
France.'     I  knew  I  should  find  them." 

"By  all  that  is  sacred,  I  never  left  Madame  once  during  the 
voyage ! " 

"Never  till  to-day?  Enough.  How  was  the  fishing-boat 
called  which  brought  you  to  Boulogne  ? " 

One  of  the  boat's  crew  was  actually  walking  behind  the  un- 
happy gentleman  at  the  time,  with  some  packet  which  Martha  had 
left  in  it.*  It  seemed  as  if  Fate  was  determined  upon  suddenly 
and  swiftly  bringing  the  criminal  to  justice,  and  under  the  avenging 
sword  of  the  friend  he  had  betrayed.  He  hade  the  man  follow  him 
to  the  liotel.     There  should  be  a  good  drink-money  for  him. 

"  Does  he  treat  her  well  ? "  asked  the  poor  gentleman,  as  he  and 
the  maid  walked  on. 

"  Dame  !  No  mother  can  be  more  gentle  than  he  is  with  her  !  " 
Where  Martha  erred  was  in  not  saying  that  her  mistress  was 
utterly  deprived  of  reason,  and  had  been  so  almost  since  the  child's 
birth.  She  owned  that  she  had  attended  her  lady  to  the  cathedral 
when  the  Countess  and  the  infant  were  christened,  and  that 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte  was  also  present.  "  He  has  taken  body  and 
soul  too,"  no  doubt  the  miserable  gentleman  thought. 

He  happened  to  alight  at  the  very  hotel  where  the  fugitives  of 

*  I  had  this  from  the  woman  herself,  whom  we  saw  when  we  paid  our  visit 
to  Lorraine  and  Alsace  in  1814, 


THE    TRAVELLERS  47? 

whom  he  was  in  search  had  had  their  quarters  four  months  before 
(so  that  for  two  months  at  least  poor  Monsieur  de  Saverne  must 
have  lain  ill  at  Naiici  at  the  commencement  of  his  journey).  The 
boatman,  the  luggage  peo^ile,  and  Martha  the  servant  followed  the 
Count  to  this  hotel ;  and  the  femme-de-chambre  remembered  how 
Madame  Cubois  and  her  brother  had  been  at  the  hotel — a  poor  sick 
lady,  who  sat  up  talking  the  whole  night.  Her  brother  slept  in 
the  right  v/ing  across  the  court.  Monsieur  has  the  lady's  room. 
How  that  child  did  cry !  See,  the  windows  look  on  the  port. 
"Yes,  this  was  the  lady's  room." 

"  And  the  chifd  lay  on  which  side  1 " 

"  On  that  side." 

Monsieur  de  Saverne  looked  at  the  place  which  the  woman 
pointed  out,  stooped  his  head  towards  the  pillow,  and  cried  as  if 
his  heart  would  break.  The  fisherman's  tears  rolled  down  too  over 
his  brown  face  and  hands.      Le  j^auvre  homme,  le  xmuvre  homvie  ! 

"  Come  into  my  sitting-room  with  me,"  he  said  to  the  fisher- 
man.    The  man  followed  him  and  shut  the  door. 

His  burst  of  feeling  was  now  over.     He  became  entirely  calm. 

"You  know  the  house  from  which  this  woman  came,  at 
Winchelsea,  in  England  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  You  took  a  gentleman  and  a  lady  thither  %  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  remember  the  man  ? " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  For  thirty  louis  will  you  go  to  sea  to-night,  take  a  passenger, 
and  deliver  a  letter  to  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  1 " 

The  man  agreed  :  and  I  take  out  from  my  secretary  that  letter, 
in  its  tawny  ink  of  fifty  years'  date,  and  read  it  with  a  strange 
interest  always : — 

"  To  the  Chevalier  Franrois  Joseph  de  la  Motte,  at 
Winchelsea,  in  England. 

"  I  KNEW  I  sliould  find  you.  I  never  doubted  where  you  were, 
^ut  for  a  sharp  illness  which  I  made  at  Nanci,  I  should  have  been 
with  you  two  months  earlier.  After  what  has  occurred  between 
us,  I  know  this  invitation  will  be  to  you  as  a  command,  and 
that  you  will  hasten  as  you  did  to  my  rescue  from  the  English 
bayonets  at  Hastenbeck.  Between  us.  Monsieur  le  Chevalier,  it  is 
to  life  or  death.  I  depend  upon  you  to  communicate  this  to  no 
one,  an(J  to  follow  the  messenger,  who  will  bring  you  to  me. 

"  Count  pe  Saverne," 


478  DENIS    DUVAL 

This  letter  was  brought  to  our  house  one  evening  as  we  sat 
in  the  front  shop.  I  had  the  child  on  my  knee,  which  would  have 
no  other  playfellow  but  me.  The  Countess  was  pretty  quiet  that 
evening — the  night  calm,  and  the  windows  open.  Grandfather  was 
reading  his  book.  The  Countess  and  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  were 
at  cards,  though,  poor  thing,  she  could  scarce  play  for  ten  minutes 
at  a  time ;  and  there  comes  a  knock,  at  which  Grandfather  puts 
down  his  book.* 

"  All's  well,"  says  he.  "  Entrez.  Comment !  c'est  vous, 
Bidois  ? " 

"  Qui,  c'est  bien  moi,  patron  ! "  says  Monsieur  Bidois,  a  great 
fellow,  in  boots  and  petticoats,  with  an  eelskin  queue  hanging  down 
to  his  heels.  "  C'est  Ik  le  petit  du  pauv'  Jean  Louis  ]  Est  i  genti 
le  pti  patron  !  " 

And  as  he  looks  at  me,  he  rubs  a  hand  across  his  nose. 

At  this  moment  Madame  la  Comtesse  gave  one,  two,  three 
screams,  a  laugh,  and  cries — "Ah,  c'est  mon  mari  qui  revient  de 
la  guerre.  II  est  Ik — k  la  croisde.  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  le  Comte  ! 
Bon  jour.  Vous  avez  une  petite  fiUe  bien  laide,  bien  laide,  que  je 
n'aime  pas  du  tout,  pas  du  tout,  pas  du  tout !  He  is  there  !  I 
saw  him  at  the  window.  There !  there !  Hide  me  from  him ! 
He  will  kill  me,  he  will  kill  me  ! "  she  cried. 

"  Calmez-vous,  Clarisse,"  says  the  Chevalier,  who  was  weary, 
no  doubt,  of  the  poor  lady's  endless  outcries  and  follies. 

"  Calraez-vous,  ma  fille  ! "  sings  out  Mother,  from  the  inner 
room,  where  she  was  washing. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  is  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  ? "  says  Bidois. 

"Apres,  Monsieur?"  says  the  Chevalier,  looking  haughtily  up 
from  the  cards. 

"  In  that  case,  I  have  a  letter  for  Monsieur  le  Chevalier."  And 
the  sailor  handed  to  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  that  letter  which 
I  have  translated,  the  ink  of  which  was  black  and  wet  then,  though 
now  it  is  sere  and  faded. 

This  Chevalier  liad  faced  death  and  danger  in  a  score  of  dare- 
devil expeditions.  At  the  game  of  steel  and  lead  tliere  was  no 
cooler  performer.  He  put  the  letter  which  he  had  received  quietly 
into  his  pocket,  finished  his  game  with  tlie  Countess,  and  telling 
Bidois  to  follow  him  to  his  lodgings,  took  leave  of  the  company. 
I  daresay  the  poor  Countess  built  up  a  house  with  the  cards,  and 
took  little  more  notice.  Mother,  going  to  close  the  shutters,  said, 
"  It  was  droll,  that  little  man,  the  friend  to  Bidois,  was  still 
standing  in  the  street."     You  see  we  had  all  sorts  of  droll  friends. 

*  There  was  a  particular  knock,  as  I  learned  later,  in  use  among  Grandpapa's 
private  friends,  and  Monsiexir  Bidois  no  doubt  had  this  sigiiai. 


THE    TRAVELLERS  479 

Seafaring  men,  speaking  a  jargon  of  English,  French,  Dutch,  were 
constantly  (Iroi)ping  in  upon  us.  I)car  Heaven  !  when  I  think  in 
what  a  company  I  have  lived,  and  what  a  galere  I  rowed  in,  is  it 
not  a  wonder  that  I  did  not  finish  where  some  of  my  friends  did? 

I  made  a  drole  de  metier  at  this  time.  I  was  set  by  Grand- 
father to  learn  his  business.  Our  apprentice  taught  me  the  com- 
mencement of  the  noble  art  of  wig-weaving.  As  soon  as  I  was 
tall  enough  to  stand  to  a  gentleman's  nose  I  was  promised  to  be 
promoted  to  be  a  shaver.  I  trotted  on  Mother's  errands  with  her 
bandboxes,  and  what  not ;  and  I  was  made  dry-nurse  to  poor 
Madame's  baby,  who,  as  I  said,  loved  me  most  of  all  in  the  house ; 
and  who  would  put  her  little  dimpled  hands  out  and  crow  with 
delight  to  see  me.  The  first  day  I  went  out  with  this  little  baby 
in  a  little  wheel-chair  Mother  got  for  her,  the  town  boys  made  rare 
fim  of  me :  and  I  had  to  fight  one,  as  poor  little  Agnes  sat  sucking 
her  little  thumb  in  her  chair,  I  suppose;  and  Avhilst  the  battle  was 
going  on,  who  should  come  up  but  Doctor  Barnard,  the  English 
rector  of  Saint  Philip's,  wlio  lent  us  French  Protestants  tlie  nave 
of  his  church  for  our  service,  whilst  our  tumbledown  old  church 
was  being  mended.  Doctor  Barnard  (for  a  reason  which  I  did 
not  know  at  that  time,  but  which  I  am  compelled  to  own  now 
was  a  good  one)  did  not  like  Grandfather,  nor  Mother,  nor  our 
family.  You  may  be  sure  our  people  abused  liim  in  return.  He 
was  called  a  hauglity  priest — a  vilain  beeg-veeg.  Mother  used  to 
say,  in  her  French-English.  And  jierhaps  one  of  the  causes  of 
her  dislike  to  him  was,  that  his  big  vig — a  fine  cauliflower  it  was 
— was  powdered  at  another  bai-ber's.  Well,  whilst  the  battle 
royal  was  going  on  between  me  and  Tom  Cafiin  (dear  heart !  how 
well  I  remember  the  fellow,  though — let  me  see — it  is  fifty-four 
years  since  we  punched  each  other's  little  noses).  Doctor  Barnard 
walks  up  to  us  boys  and  stops  the  fighting.  "You  little  rogues  ! 
I'll  have  you  all  put  in  the  stocks  and  whipped  by  my  beadle," 
says  the  Doctor,  who  was  a  magistrate  too:  "as  for  this  little 
French  barber,  he  is  always  in  mischief." 

"  They  laughed  at  me  and  called  me  Dry-nurse,  and  wanted 
to  upset  the  little  cart,  sir,  and  I  wouldn't  bear  it.  And  it's 
my  duty  to  protect  a  poor  child  that  can't  help  itself,"  said  I, 
very  stoutly.  "  Her  mother  is  ill.  Her  nurse  has  run  away, 
and  she  has  nobody — nobody  to  protect  her  but  me — and  'Notre 
P^re  qui  est  aux  cieux  ; '  "  and  I  held  up  my  little  hand  as  Grand- 
father used  to  do ;  "  and  if  those  boys  hurt  the  child  I  ivill  fight 
for  her." 

Tlie  Doctor  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  eyes ;  and  he  felt  in 
bis  pocket  and  gave  me  a  dollar. 


480  DENIS   DUVAL 

"  And  come  to  see  us  all  at  the  Rectory,  child,"  Mrs.  Barnard 
says,  who  was  with  tiie  Doctor ;  and  she  looked  at  the  little  baby 
that  was  in  its  cot,  and  said,  "  Poor  thing,  poor  thing ! " 

And  the  Doctor,  turning  round  to  the  English  boys,  still 
holding  me  by  the  hand,  said,  "  Mind,  all  you  boys  !  If  I  hear 
of  you  being  such  cowards  again  as  to  strike  this  little  lad  for 
doing  his  duty,  I  will  have  you  whipped  by  my  beadle,  as  sure  as 
my  name  is  Thomas  Barnard.  Shake  hands,  you  Tliomas  Caffin, 
with  the  French  boy;"  and  I  said,  "I  would  shake  hands  or  fight 
it  out  whenever  Tom  Caffin  liked ;  "  and  so  took  my  place  as  pony 
again,  and  pulled  my  little  cart  down  Sandgate. 

Tliese  stories  got  about  amongst  the  townspeople,  and  fishermen, 
and  seafaring  folk,  I  suj)pose,  and  the  people  of  our  little  circle ; 
and  they  were  the  means,  God  help  me,  of  bringmg  me  in  those 
very  early  days  a  legacy  whicli  I  have  still.  You  see,  the  day 
after  Bidois,  the  French  fisherman,  jiaid  us  a  visit,  as  I  was  pulling 
my  little  cart  up  the  hill  to  a  little  farmer's  house  where  Grand- 
father and  a  partner  of  his  had  some  pigeons,  of  which  I  was 
very  fond  as  a  boy,  I  met  a  little  dark  man  whose  face  I  cannot 
at  all  re(vall  to  my  mind,  but  who  spoke  French  and  German  to 
me  like  Grandfather  and  Mother.  "  That  is  the  child  of  Madame 
von  Zabern  1 "  says  he,  trembling  very  much. 

"  Ja,  Herr  ! "  says  the  little  boy.  .  .  . 

0  Agnes,  Agnes !  How  the  years  roll  away !  What  strange 
events  have  befallen  us  :  what  passionate  griefs  have  we  had  to 
suffer  :  what  a  merciful  Heaven  has  protected  us,  since  that  day 
when  your  father  knelt  over  the  little  car,  in  which  his  child  lay 
sleeping !  I  have  the  picture  in  my  mind  now.  I  see  a  winding 
road  leading  down  to  one  of  the  gates  of  our  town  ;  the  blue  marsh- 
land, and  yonder,  across  the  marsh,  Rye  towers  and  gables ;  a  great 
silver  sea  stretcliing  beyond  ;  and  that  dark  man's  figure  stooping 
and  looking  at  tlie  child  asleep.  He  never  kissed  the  infant  or 
touched  her.  I  remember  it  woke  smiling,  and  held  out  its  little 
arms,  and  he  turned  away  "with  a  sort  of  groan. 

Bidois,  the  French  fisherman  I  spoke  of  as  having  been  to  see 
us  on  the  night  before,  came  u^)  here  with  another  companion,  an 
Englishman  I  think. 

"  Ah  !  we  seek  for  you  everywhere.  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  says 
he.     "  The  tide  serves  and  it  is  full  time." 

"Monsieur  le  Chevalier  is  on  board?"  says  the  Count  de 
Saverne. 

"  II  est  bien  ];i,"  says  the  fisherman.  And  they  went  down  the 
hill  through  the  gate,  without  turning  to  look  back. 

Mother  was  quite  quiet  and  gentle  all  thf^t  day.     It  seemed 


>t/^M'?   WTfv 


THE    TRAVELLERS  481 

as  if  something  scared  her.  The  poor  Countess  prattled  and 
laughed,  or  cried  in  her  unconscious  way.  But  Grandfather  at 
evening  prayer  that  night  making  the  exposition  rather  long, 
Mother  stamped  her  foot,  and  said,  "Assez  bavardd  comme  <;a,  mon 
pfere,"  and  sank  hack  in  her  chair  with  her  apron  over  her  face. 

She  remained  all  next  day  very  silent,  crying  often,  and  read- 
ing in  our  great  German  Bible.  She  was  kind  to  me  that  day. 
I  remember  her  saying,  in  her  deep  voice,  "  Thou  art  a  brave  boy, 
Denikin."  It  was  seldom  she  patted  my  head  so  softly.  That 
night  our  patient  wa-s  very  wild ;  and  laughing  a  great  deal,  and 
singing  so  that  the  people  would  stop  in  the  streets  to  listen. 

Doctor  Barnard  again  met  me  that  day  di'agging  my  little 
carriage,  and  he  fetched  me  into  the  Rectory  for  the  first  time, 
and  gave  me  cake  and  wine,  and  the  book  of  the  "  Arabian 
Nights,"  and  the  ladies  admii'ed  the  little  baby,  and  said  it  was 
a  pity  it  was  a  little  Papist,  and  the  Doctor  hoped  /  was  not 
going  to  turn  Papist,  and  I  said,  "  Oh,  never."  Neither  Mother 
nor  I  liked  that  darkling  Roman  Catholic  clergyman  who  was 
fetched  over  from  our  neighbours  at  the  Priory  by  Monsieur  de 
la  Motte.  The  Chevalier  wixs  very  firm  himself  in  that  religion. 
I  little  thought  then  that  I  was  to  see  him  on  a  day  when  his 
courage  and  his  faith  were  both  to  have  an  awful  trial. 

...  I  was  reading  then  in  this  fine  book  of  Monsieur  Galland 
which  the  Doctor  had  given  me.  I  had  no  orders  to  go  to  bed, 
strange  to  say,  and  I  daresay  was  peeping  into  the  cave  of  the 
Forty  Thieves  along  with  Master  Ali  Baba,  when  I  heard  the 
clock  whirring  previously  to  striking  twelve,  and  steps  coming 
rapidly  up  our  empty  street. 

Mother  started  up,  looking  quite  haggard,  and  undid  the  bolt 
of  the  door. 

"  C'est  lui ! "  says  she,  with  her  eyes  starting,  and  the 
Chevalier  de  la  Motte  came  in,  looking  as  white  as  a  corpse. 

Poor  Madame  de  Saverne  upstairs,  awakened  by  the  striking 
clock  perhaps,  began  to  sing  overhead,  and  the  Chevalier  gave  a 
great  start,  looking  more  ghastly  than  before,  as  my  mother  with 
an  awful  face  looked  at  him. 

*'  II  I'a  voulu,"  says  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  hanging  down  his 
head ;  and  again  poor  Madame's  crazy  voice  began  to  sing. 

REPORT 

"On  the  27th  June  of  this  year,  17^9,  the  Comte  de  Saverne 
arrived  at  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  and  lodged  at  the  Ecu  de  France, 
where  also  was  staying  Monsieur  le  Marquis  du  Quesne  Menneville, 


482  DENIS   DUVAL 

Chef  d'Escadre  of  the  Naval  Armies  of  his  Majesty.  The  Comte  de 
Savenie  was  previously  unknown  to  the  Marquis  du  Quesne,  but 
recalling  to  Monsieur  du  Quesne's  remembrance  the  fact  that  his 
illustrious  ancestor  the  Admiral  du  Quesne  professed  the  Reformed 
religion,  as  did  Monsieur  de  Saverne  himself,  Monsieur  de  Saverne 
entreated  the  Marquis  du  Quesne  to  be  his  fi'iend  in  a  rencontre 
which  deplorable  circumstances  rendered  unavoidable. 

"  At  the  same  time,  Monsieur  de  Saverne  stated  to  Monsieur 
le  Marquis  du  Quesne  the  causes  of  his  quarrel  with  the  Chevalier 
Francis  Joseph  de  la  Motte,  late  officer  of  the  regiment  of  Soubise, 
at  present  residing  in  England  in  the  town  of  Winchelsea,  in  the 
county  of  Sussex.  The  statement  made  by  the  Comte  de  Saverne 
was  such  as  to  convince  Monsieur  du  Quesne  of  the  Count's  right 
to  exact  a  reparation  from  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte. 

"A  boat  was  despatched  on  the  night  of  the  29th  June,  with 
a  messenger  bearing  the  note  of  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Saverne. 
And  in  this  boat  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  returned  from  England. 

"  The  undersigned  Comte  de  Berigny,  in  garrison  at  Boulogne, 
and  an  acquaintance  of  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  consented  to  serve  as 
liis  witness  in  the  meeting  with  Monsieur  de  Saverne. 

"The  meeting  took  place  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on 
the  sands  at  half  a  league  from  the  port  of  Boulogne :  and  the 
weapons  chosen  were  pistols.  Both  gentlemen  were  perfectly 
calm  and  collected,  as  one  might  expect  from  officers  distinguished 
in  the  King's  service,  who  had  faced  the  enemies  of  France  as 
comrades  together. 

"  Before  firing.  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  advanced 
four  steps,  and  holding  his  pistol  down,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
his  heart,  he  said, — 'I  swear  on  the  faith  of  a  Christian,  and 
the  honour  of  a  gentleman,  that  I  am  innocent  of  the  charge  laid 
against  me  by  Monsieur  dc  Saverne.' 

"  The  Comte  de  Saverne  said, — '  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  la 
Motte,  I  have  made  no  charge ;  and  if  I  had,  a  lie  costs  you 
nothing.' 

"  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  saluting  the  witnesses  courteously,  and 
with  grief  rather  tlian  anger  visible  upon  his  countenance,  returned 
to  his  line  on  the  sand  which  was  marked  out  as  tlie  place  where 
he  was  to  stand,  at  a  distance  of  ten  paces  from  his  adversary. 

"At  the  signal  being  given  both  fired  simultaneously.  The 
ball  of  Monsieur  de  Saverne  grazed  Monsieur  de  la  Motte's  side 
curl,  while  his  l)all  struck  Monsieur  de  Saverne  in  the  right  breast. 
Monsieur  de  Saverne  stood  a  moment,  and  fell. 

"  The  seconds,  the  surgeon,  and  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  advanced 
towards  the  fallen  gentleman  ;  and  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  holding 


THE    TRAVELLERS  483 

up  his  hand,  again  said, — 'I  take  Heaven  to  witness  the  person  is 
innocent.' 

"  The  Conite  de  Saverne  seemed  to  he  about  to  speak.  He 
lifted  himself  from  the  sand,  supporting  himself  on  one  arm  :  hut 

all  he  said  was, — '  You,  you '  and  a  great  issue  of  hlood  rushed 

from  his  throat,   and   he  fell  back,  and,  with  a  few  convulsions, 
died. 

(Signed)  "Marquis  du  Quesne  Menneville, 

'•  Chef  CC  E scad  re  aux  Armies 
Navales  du  Roy. 

"  CoMTE  DE  BfiRIGNY, 

"Brigadier  dc  Cavalerie." 

SURGEON'S  REPORT 

'*  1,  Jean  Batiste  Drouot,  Surgeon-Major  of  the  Regiment 
Royal  Cravate,  in  garrison  at  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  certify  that  I  was 
I)resent  at  the  meeting  which  ended  so  lamentably.  The  death  of 
the  gentleman  who  succumbed  was  immediate  ;  the  ball,  passing 
to  the  riglit  of  the  middle  of  the  breastbone,  penetrated  the  lung 
and  the  large  artery  supplying  it  with  blood,  and  caused  death  by 
immediate  suffocation." 


CHAPTER  IV 

OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

THAT  last  night  which  lie  was  to  pass  upon  earth,  Monsieur 
de  Saverne  spent  in  a  little  tavern  in  Winclielsea,  frequented 
by  fishing  people,  and  known  to  Bidois,  who,  even  during 
the  war,  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  coming  to  England  upon 
errands  in  which  Monsieur  Grandpapa  was  very  much  interested — ■ 
precentor,  elder,  perruquier  as  he  was. 

The  Count  de  Saverne  had  had  some  talk  with  the  fishermen 
during  the  voyage  from  Boulogne,  and  more  conversation  took  jdace 
on  this  last  night,  when  the  Count  took  Bidois  partly  into  his  con- 
fidence :  and,  without  mentioning  the  precise  cause  of  his  quarrel 
with  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  said  that  it  was  inevitable ;  that  the 
man  was  a  villain  who  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  pollute  the  earth  ; 
and  that  no  criminal  was  ever  more  righteously  executed  than  this 
Chevalier  would  be  on  the  morrow,  when  it  was  agreed  that  the 
two  were  to  meet. 

The  meeting  would  have  taken  place  on  that  very  night,  but 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte  demanded,  as  indeed  he  had  a  right  to  do, 
some  hours  for  the  settlement  of  his  own  affairs ;  and  preferred  to 
fight  on  French  ground  rather  than  English,  as  the  survivor  of  the 
quarrel  would  be  likely  to  meet  with  very  rough  treatment  in  this 
country. 

La  Motte  betook  himself  then  to  arranging  his  papers.  As  for 
the  Count  de  Saverne,  he  said  all  his  dispositions  were  made.  A 
dowry — that  whicli  his  wife  brought — would  go  to  her  child.  His 
own  property  was  devised  to  his  own  relations,  and  he  could  give 
the  child  nothing.  He  had  only  a  few  pieces  in  his  purse,  and, 
"  7'enez,"  says  he,  "  this  watch.  Should  anything  befall  me,  I 
desire  it  may  be  given  to  the  little  boy  who  saved  my — that  is,  her 
child."  And  the  voice  of  Monsieur  le  Comte  broke  as  he  said  these 
words,  and  the  tears  ran  over  his  fingers.  And  the  seaman  wept 
too,  as  he  told  the  story  to  me,  years  after,  nor  were  some  of  mine 
wanting,  I  think,  for  that  poor,  heart-broken,  wretched  man,  writhing 
in  helpless  agony,  as  the  hungry  sand  drank  his  blood.  Assuredly, 
the  guilt  of  that  blood  was  on  thy  head,  Francis  de  la  Motte. 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  485 

The  watch  is  tifkin.i;  on  the  talile  Ix-fore  me  as  I  write.  It  has 
been  my  companion  for  iialf  a  century.  I  rememher  my  childish 
delight  when  Bidois  brought  it  to  me,  and  told  my  motlier  the  tale 
of  the  meeting  of  the  two  gentlemen. 

"You  see  her  condition,"  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  said  to  ray 
mother  at  tliis  time.  "  We  are  sei)arated  for  ever,  as  hopf^lessly 
as  though  one  or  other  were  dead.  My  hand  slew  her  husband. 
Perhaps  my  fault  destroyed  her  reason.  I  transmit  misfortunes  to 
those  I  love  and  would  serve.  Shall  I  marry  her?  I  will  if  you 
think  I  can  serve  her.  As  long  as  a  guinea  remains  to  me,  I  will 
halve  it  with  her.  I  have  but  very  few  left  now.  My  fortune  has 
crumbled  under  my  hands  as  have  my  friendsliii»s,  my  once  bright 
prospects,  my  ambitions.  I  am  a  doomed  man.  Somehow,  I  drag 
down  those  who  love  me  into  my  doom." 

And  so  indeed  there  was  a  Cain  mark,  as  it  ^\'ere,  on  this 
imhaitj)y  man.  He  did  bring  wreck  and  ruin  on  those  who  loved 
him.  He  was  as  a  lost  soul,  I  somehow  think,  whose  tortures  had 
begun  already.  Predestined  to  evil,  to  crime,  to  gloom  ;  but  now 
and  again  some  one  took  pity  upon  this  poor  wretch,  and  amongst 
those  who  pitied  him  was  my  stern  mother. 

And  here  I  may  relate  how  it  happened  that  I  "  sa\ed  "  the 
child,  for  which  act  poor  Monsieur  de  Saverne  rewarded  me.  Bidois 
no  doubt  told  that  story  to  Monsieur  le  Comte  in  the  course  of 
their  gloomy  voyage.  Mrs.  l\Iartha,  the  Countess's  attendant,  had 
received  or  taken  leave  of  absence  one  night,  after  putting  the  cliild 
and  the  poor  lady,  who  was  no  better  than  a  child,  to  bed.  I  went 
to  my  bed,  and  to  sleep  as  boys  sleei) ;  and  I  forget  what  business 
called  away  my  mother  likewise ;  but  when  she  came  back  to  look 
for  her  poor  Biche  and  the  infant  in  its  cradle — both  were  gone. 

I  have  seen  the  incomparable  Siddons  in  the  play,  as,  white  and 
terrified,  she  passed  through  the  darkened  hall  after  King  Duncan's 
murder.  My  mother's  face  wore  a  look  of  terror  to  the  full  as 
tragical  when,  starting  up  from  my  boyish  sleej*,  I  sat  up  in  my 
bed  and  saw  her.  She  was  almost  beside  herself  with  terror.  The 
poor  insane  lady  and  her  child  were  gone — who  could  say  where  ? 
Into  the  marshes — into  tlie  sea — into  the  darkness — it  was  im- 
possible to  say  whither  the  Countess  had  lied. 

"  We  must  get  up,  my  boy,  and  find  them,"  says  Motlier,  in  a 
hoarse  voice ;  and  I  was  sent  over  to  Mr.  Bliss's  the  grocer,  in  East 
Street,  where  the  Chevalier  lived,  and  where  I  found  him  sitting 
(with  two  priests,  by  the  way,  guests,  no  doubt,  of  Mr.  Weston,  at 
the  Priory),  and  all  these,  and  Mother,  on  her  side,  with  me  follow- 
ing her,  went  out  to  look  for  the  fugitives. 

We  went  by  pairs,  taking  different  roads.     Mother's  was  the 


486  DENIS    DUVAL 

right  one  as  it  appeared,  for  we  had  not  walked  many  minutes, 
when  we  saw  a  white  figure  coming  towards  us,  glimmering  out  of 
the  dark,  and  heard  a  voice  singing. 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu  !  "  says  Mother,  and  "  Gott  sey  Dank  !  "  and 
I  know  not  what  exclamations  of  gratitude  and  relief.  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  Countess. 

As  we  came  up,  she  knew  us  with  our  light,  and  began  to 
imitate,  in  her  crazy  way,  the  cry  of  the  watchman,  whom  the  poor 
sleepless  soul  had  often  heard  under  the  Avindows.  "  Past  twelve 
o'clock,  a  starlight  night ! "  she  sang,  and  gave  one  of  her  sad 
laughs. 

When  we  came  up  to  her,  we  found  her  in  a  white  wrapper, 
her  hair  flowing  down  her  back  and  over  her  poor  pale  face,  and 
again  she  sang,  "  Past  twelve  o'clock." 

The  child  was  not  with  her.  Mother  trembled  in  every  limb. 
The  lantern  shook  so  in  her  hand  I  thought  she  would  drop  it. 

She  put  it  <lown  on  the  ground.  She  took  her  shawl  off  her 
back  and  covered  the  poor  lady  with  it,  who  smiled  in  her  childish 
way,  and  said,  "  C'est  hon ;  c'est  chaud  9a ;  ah  !  que  c'est  bien  !  " 

As  I  chanced  to  look  down  at  the  lady's  feet,  I  saw  one  of  them 
was  naked.  Mother,  lierself  in  a  dreadful  agitation,  embraced  and 
sootlied  Madame  de  Saverne.  "  Tell  me,  my  angel,  tell  me,  my 
love,  where  is  the  child '? "  says  Mother,  almost  fainting. 

"  The  child  !  what  child  f  That  little  brat  who  always  cries  1 
I  know  nothing  about  children,"  says  the  poor  thing.  "Take  me 
to  my  bed  this  moment,  madam  !  How  dare  you  bring  me  into  the 
streets  with  naked  feet  ? " 

"Where  have  you  been  walking,  my  dearl"  says  poor  Mother, 
trying  to  soothe  her. 

"  I  have  been  to  Great  Saverne.  I  wore  a  domino.  I  knew 
the  coachman  quite  well,  though  he  was  muffled  up  all  but  his  nose. 
I  was  presented  to  Monseigneur  the  Cardinah  I  made  him  such 
a  curtsey — like  this.     Oh,  my  foot  hurts  me  !  " 

She  often  rambled  about  this  ball  and  play,  and  hummed 
snatches  of  tunes  and  little  phrases  of  dialogue,  which  she  may 
have  heard  there.  Indeed,  I  believe  it  was  the  only  play  and  ball 
the  poor  thing  ever  saw  in  her  life  ;  her  brief  life,  her  wretched  life. 
'Tis  pitiful  to  think  how  unhai)py  it  was.  When  I  recall  it,  it 
tears  my  heart-strings  somehow,  as  it  doth  to  see  a  cliild  in  pain. 

As  she  held  up  the  poor  bleeding  foot,  I  saw  that  the  edge  of 
her  dress  was  all  wet,  and  covered  with  sand. 

"  Mother,  mother  !  "  said  I,  "  she  has  been  to  the  sea  ! " 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  sea,  Clarisse  1 "  asks  mother. 

"J'ai  etd  au  bal :  j'ai  daus^;  j'ai  chantd     J'ai  bien  reconnu 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  487 

moil  coclier.  J'ai  e'te  an  bal  chez  le  Cardinal.  But  you  must  not 
tell  Monsieur  de  Saveriie.     Oh,  no,  you  nmstn't  tell  him  !  " 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  me.  And,  Avhcnever  I  remember 
it,  my  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness  to  the  gracious  Giver  of  ail 
good  thoughts.  Madame,  of  whom  I  was  not  afraid,  and  who 
sometimes  was  amused  by  my  prattle,  would  now  and  then  take  a 
walk  accompanied  by  Martiia,  her  maid,  who  lield  the  infant,  and 
myself,  who  liked  to  draw  it  in  its  little  carriage.  We  used  to 
walk  down  to  the  shore,  and  there  was  a  rock  there  on  whicli  the 
poor  lady  would  sit  for  hours. 

"You  take  her  home.  Mother,"  says  I,  all  in  a  tremble.  "You 
give  me  the  lantern,  and  I'll  go — I'll  go  " — I  was  off  before  I  said 
where.  Dciwn  I  went,  through  Westgate ;  down  I  ran  along  the 
road  towards  the  place  I  guessed  at.  When  I  had  gone  a  few 
hundred  yards,  I  saw  in  the  road  something  white.  It  was  the 
Countess's  slipper,  that  she  had  left  there.  I  knew  she  had  gone 
that  way. 

I  got  down  to  the  shore,  running,  running  with  all  my  little 
might.  The  moon  had  risen  by  this  time,  shining  gloriously  over 
a  great  silver  sea.  A  tide  of  silver  was  pouring  in  over  tiie  sand. 
Yonder  was  that  rock  where  we  often  had  sat.  The  infant  was 
sleeping  on  it  under  the  stars  uiiconscious.  He,  who  loves  little 
children,  had  watched  over  it.  ...  I  scarce  can  see  the  words  as 
I  write  them  down.  My  little  baby  was  waking.  She  had  known 
nothing  of  the  awful  sea  coming  nearer  with  eacii  wave ;  but  she 
knew  me  as  I  came,  and  smiled,  and  warbled  a  little  infant  welcome. 
I  took  her  up  in  my  arms,  and  trotted  home  with  my  pretty  burden. 
As  I  paced  up  the  hill,  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  and  one  of  the  Fi'ench 
clergymen  met  me.  By  ones  and  tM'os,  the  other  searchers  after 
my  little  wanderer  came  home  from  their  quest.  She  was  laid  in 
her  little  crib,  and  never  knew,  until  years  later,  the  danger  from 
which  she  had  been  rescued. 

My  adventures  became  known  in  our  town,  and  I  made  some 
acquaintances  who  were  very  kind  to  me,  and  were  tlie  means  of 
advancing  me  in  after-life.  I  was  too  young  to  understand  much 
what  was  happening  round  about  me ;  but  now,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  I  must  confess  that  old  Grandfather,  besides  his  business 
of  perruquier,  Avhich  you  will  say  is  no  very  magnificent  trade, 
followed  otiiers  which  were  far  less  reputable.  AVhat  do  you  say, 
for  instance,  of  a  church  elder,  who  lends  money  a  la  petite  setiiaine, 
and  at  great  interest?  The  fishermen,  the  market-people,  nay,  one 
or  two  farmers  and  gentlemen  round  about,  were  beholden  to  Grand- 
father for  sujiplies,  and  they  came  to  iiim,  to  be  shaved  in  more 
ways  than  one.     No  good  came  out  of  his  gains,  as  I  shall  i)resently 


488  DENIS    DUVAL 

tell :  but  meanwhile  his  hands  were  for  ever  stretched  out  to  claw 
other  folks'  money  towards  himself;  and  it  must  be  owned  that 
Madame  sa  bru  loved  a  purse  too,  and  was  by  no  means  scrupulous 
as  to  the  way  of  filling  it.  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  was 
free  handed  and  grand  in  his  manner.  He  paid  a  pension,  I  know 
not  how  nuich,  for  the  maintenance  of  jwor  Madame  de  Saverne. 
He  had  brought  her  to  the  strait  in  which  she  was,  poor  thing ! 
Had  he  not  worked  on  her,  she  never  would  have  left  her  religion  : 
she  Jiever  would  liave  fled  from  her  husband  :  that  fatal  duel  woul<l 
never  have  occurred  :  right  or  wrong,  he  was  the  cause  of  her 
calamity,  and  he  would  make  it  as  liglit  as  it  might  be.  I  know 
how,  for  years,  extravagant  and  embarrassed  as  he  was,  he  yet 
supplied  means  for  handsomely  maintaining  the  little  Agnes  when 
she  was  presently  left  an  orphan  in  the  world,  when  mother  and 
father  both  were  dead,  and  her  relatives  at  home  disowned  her. 

The  ladies  of  Barr,  Agnes's  aunts,  totally  denied  that  the 
infant  was  their  brother's  child,  and  refused  any  contribution 
towards  her  maintenance.  Her  mother's  family  equally  disavowed 
her.  They  had  been  taught  the  same  story,  and  I  suppose  we 
believe  willingly  enough  what  we  wish  to  believe.  The  poor  lady 
was  guilty.  Her  child  had  been  born  in  her  husband's  absence. 
Wlien  his  return  was  announced,  she  fled  from  her  home,  not  daring 
to  face  him ;  and  the  unhappy  Count  de  Saverne  died  by  the  pistol 
of  the  man  who  had  already  robbed  him  of  his  honour.  La  Motte 
had  to  bear  this  obloquy,  or  only  protest  against  it  by  letters  from 
England.  He  could  not  go  over  to  Lorraine,  where  he  was  plunged 
in  debt.  "  At  least,  Duval,"  said  he  to  me,  when  I  shook  hands 
with  him,  and  witii  all  my  heart  forgave  him,  "mad,  and  reckless 
as  I  have  been,  and  fatal  to  all  whom  I  loved,  I  liave  never  allowed 
the  child  to  want,  and  have  supported  her  in  comfort,  when  I  was 
myself  almost  without  a  meal."  A  bad  man  no  doubt  this  was ; 
and  yet  not  utterly  wicked  :  a  great  criminal  who  paid  an  awful 
penalty.  Let  us  be  humble,  who  have  erred  too ;  and  thankful,  if 
we  have  a  hope  tliat  we  have  found  mercy. 

I  believe  it  was  some  braggart  letter,  which  La  Motte  wrote  to 
a  comrade  in  Monsieur  de  Vaux's  camp,  and  in  which  he  boasted  of 
making  the  conversion  of  a  petite  Protestante  at  Strasbourg,  which 
came  to  the  knowledge  of  poor  Monsieur  de  Saverne,  hasteneti  his 
return  home,  and  brouglit  about  this  dreadful  end.  La  Motte 
owned  as  much,  indeed,  in  the  last  interview  I  ever  had  with  him. 

Who  told  Madame  de  Saverne  of  her  husband's  death  ?  It  was 
not  for  years  after  that  I  myself  (unlucky  chatterbox,  whose  tongue 
was  always  bla])bing)  knew  what  had  hai)pened.  My  mother 
thought  that  she  must  have   overheard  Bidois  the  boatman,  who 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  489 

told  the  whole  story  over  his  glass  of  geneva  in  our  parlour.  The 
Countess's  chamber  was  overhead,  and  the  door  left  open.  The 
poor  thing  used  to  be  very  angry  at  the  notion  of  a  locked  door, 
and  since  that  awful  esca])ade  to  the  sea-shore,  my  mother  slept 
in  her  room,  or  a  servant  whom  she  liked  pretty  well  supplied 
Mother's  place. 

In  her  condition  the  dreadful  event  affected  lier  but  little ;  and 
we  never  knew  that  she  was  aware  of  it  until  one  evening  when  it 
hajipened  that  a  neighbour,  one  of  our  French  people  of  Rye,  was 
talking  over  the  tea-table,  and  telling  us  of  a  dreadful  thing  he  had 
seen  on  Penenden  Heath  as  he  Avas  coming  home.  He  there  saw  a 
woman  burned  at  the  stake  for  the  murder  of  her  husband.  The 
story  is  in  the  Gentleman^  Magazine  for  the  year  1769,  and  that 
will  settle  pretty  well  the  date  of  the  evening  when  our  neighbour 
related  the  horrible  tale  to  us. 

Poor  Madame  de  Saverne  (who  had  a  very  grand  air,  and  was 
perfectly  like  a  lady)  said  quite  simply,  "  In  this  case,  my  good 
Ursule,  I  shall  be  burned  too.  For  you  know  I  was  the  cause  of 
my  husband  being  killed.  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  went  and  killed 
him  in  Corsica."  And  she  looked  round  with  a  little  smile,  and 
nodded  ;  and  arranged  her  white  dress  with  her  slim  hot  hands. 

When  the  poor  thing  spoke,  the  Chevalier  sank  back  as  if  he 
had  been  shot  himself. 

"  Good-night,  neighbour  Marion,"  groans  Mother ;  "  she  is  very 
bad  to-night.  Come  to  bed,  my  dear,  come  to  bed."  And  tlie 
poor  thing  followed  Mother,  curtseying  very  finely  to  the  company, 
and  saying,  quite  softly,  "  Oui,  oui,  oui,  they  will  burn  me ;  they 
will  burn  me." 

This  idea  seized  upon  her  mind,  and  never  left  it.  Madame  la 
Coratesse  passed  a  night  of  great  agitation ;  talking  incessantly. 
Mother  and  her  maid  Avore  up  with  her  all  night.  All  night  long 
we  could  hear  her  sdugs,  her  screams,  her  terrible  laughter.  .  .  . 
Oh,  pitiful  was  thy  hit  in  this  world,  poor  guiltless,  harndess  lady  ! 
In  thy  brief  years,  how  little  ha])i>iness  !  For  thy  marriage  portion 
only  gloom,  and  terror,  and  submission,  and  captivity.  The  awful 
Will  above  us  ruled  it  so.  Poor  frightened  spirit !  it  has  woke 
under  serener  skies  now,  and  passed  out  of  reach  of  our  terrors,  and 
temptations,  and  troubles. 

At  my  early  age  I  could  only  be  expected  to  obey  my  elders 
and  parents,  and  to  consider  all  things  were  right  which  were  done 
round  about  me.  Mother's  cuffs  on  the  head  I  received  without 
malice,  and  if  the  truth  must  be  owned,  had  not  seldom  to  submit 
to  the  major  operation  which  my  grandfather  used  to  perform  with 


490  DENIS    DUVAL 

a  certair,  rod  wliich  he  kept  in  a  locked  cupboard,  and  accompany 
Avith  long  wearisome  sermons  between  each  cut  or  two  of  his 
fovourite  instrument.  Tiiese  good  people,  as  I  gradually  began  to 
learn,  bore  but  an  indifferent  reputation  in  the  town  which  they 
inhabited,  and  were  neither  liked  by  the  French  of  their  own 
colony,  nor  by  the  English  among  whom  we  dwelt.  Of  course, 
being  a  simple  little  felloWj  I  honoured  my  father  and  mother  as 
became  me — my  grandfather  and  mother,  that  is — father  being  dead 
some  years. 

Grandftither,  I  knew,  had  a  share  in  a  fishing-boat,  as  numbers 
of  people  had,  both  at  Eye  and  Winchelsea.  Stokes,  our  fisherman, 
took  me  out  once  or  twice,  and  I  liked  tlie  sport  very  much  :  but  it 
appeared  that  I  ought  to  have  said  nothing  about  tlie  boat  and  the 
fishing — for  one  night  when  we  pulled  out  only  a  sliort  way  l)eyond 
a  rock  which  we  used  to  call  the  Bull  Rock,  from  a  pair  of  horns 
wjiich  stuck  out  of  the  M^ater,  and  there  were  hailed  by  my  old 
friend  Bidois,  who  had  come  from  Boulogne  in  his  lugger — and 
then  .  .  .  well  then,  I  was  going  to  explain  the  whole  matter 
artlessly  to  one  of  our  neighbours  who  happened  to  step  in  to 
sapper,  when  Grandpapa  (who  had  made  a  grace  of  five  minutes 
long  befoi-e  taking  the  dish-cover  off")  fetched  me  a  slap  across  the 
face  which  sent  me  reeling  off"  my  perch.  And  the  Chevalier,  who 
was  supping  with  us,  only  laughed  at  my  misfortune. 

This  being  laughed  at  somehow  affected  me  more  than  the 
blows.  I  was  used  to  those,  from  Grandfather  and  Mother  too ; 
but  when  people  once  had  been  kind  to  me  I  could  not  bear  a 
different  beliaviour  from  them.  And  this  gentleman  certainly  was. 
He  improved  my  French  very  mucli,  and  used  to  laugh  at  my 
blunders  and  bad  pronunciation.  He  took  a  good  deal  of  pains 
with  me  when  I  was  at  home,  and  made  me  speak  French  like  a 
little  gentleman. 

In  a  very  brief  time  he  learned  English  himself,  with  a  droll 
accent  to  be  sure,  but  so  as  to  express  himself  quite  intelligibly. 
His  headquarters  were  at  Winchelsea,  though  he  would  frequently 
be  away  at  Deal,  Dover,  Canterbury,  even  London.  He  paid 
Mother  a  pension  for  little  Agnes,  who  grew  apace,  and  was  the 
most  winning  cliild  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  I  remember,  as  well  as 
yesterday,  the  black  dress  which  was  made  for  her  after  her  poor 
mother's  deatli,  her  pale  clieeks,  and  the  great  solemn  eyes  gazing 
out  from  under  the  black  curling  ringlets  «diich  fell  over  her  fore- 
head and  face. 

Why  do  I  make  zig-zag  journeys  ?  'Tis  the  privilege  of  old  age 
to  be  garndous,  and  its  happiness  to  remember  early  days.  As  I 
sink  back  in  my  arm-chair,  safe  and  sheltered  post  tot  discrimina, 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  491 

and  happier  than  it  has  been  tlie  hit  of  most  fe]k)W-sinners  to  be, 
the  i)ast  comes  back  to  me — the  stormy  past,  tl)e  strange  unliappy 
yet  happy  past — and  I  look  at  it  scared  and  astonislied  sometimes  ; 
as  huntsmen  look  at  the  gaps  and  ditclies  over  which  they  liave 
leapt,  and  wonder  how  they  are  alive. 

My  good  fortune  in  rescuing  that  little  darling  child  caused  the 
Chevalier  to  be  very  kind  to  me ;  and  when  he  was  with  us,  I  used 
to  hang  on  to  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  prattle  for  hours  together, 
quite  losing  all  fear  of  him.  Except  )ny  kind  namesake,  the  Captain 
and  Admiral,  this  was  the  first  (jentleman  I  ever  met  in  intimacy — 
a  gentleman  with  many  a  stain,  nay  crime  to  reproach  him  ;  but 
not  all  lost,  I  hope  and  pray.  I  own  to  having  a  kindly  feeling 
towards  tliat  fatal  man.  I  see  myself  a  child  ])rattling  at  his  coat- 
skirts,  and  trotting  along  our  roads  and  marshes  with  him.  I  see 
liim  with  his  sad  pale  face — and  a  kind  of  hli^iJitlng  look  he  had — 
looking  at  that  unconscious  lady,  at  that  little  baby.  My  friends 
the  Neapolitans  M'ould  have  called  his  an  evil  eye,  and  exorcised  it 
accordingly.  A  favourite  walk  we  had  was  to  a  house  about  a  mile 
out  of  Winchelsea,  where  a  grazing  farmer  lived.  My  delight  then 
was  to  see  not  his  cattle,  but  liis  pigeons,  of  which  he  had  a  good 
stock,  of  croppers,  pouters,  runts,  and  turbits ;  and  amongst  those 
I  was  told  there  were  a  sort  of  pigeons  called  carriers,  which  would 
fly  for  prodigious  distances,  returning  from  tlie  place  to  which  they 
were  taken  though  it  were  ever  so  distant,  to  that  where  they  lived 
and  were  bred. 

Whilst  I  was  at  ]\Ir.  Perreau's,  one  of  these  pigeons  actually 
came  in  flying  from  the  sea,  as  it  appeared  to  me  :  and  Perreau 
looked  at  it,  and  fondled  it,  and  said  to  the  Chevalier,  "  There  is 
nothing.  It  is  to  be  at  the  old  i)lace."  On  which  Monsieur  le 
Chevalier  only  said,  "  C'est  bien ; "  and  as  we  walked  away  told 
me  all  he  knew  about  pigeons,  which  I  daresay  was  no  great 
knowledge. 

Why  did  he  say  there  was  nothing  1  I  asked  in  the  innocence 
of  my  prattle.  The  Chevalier  told  me  that  tiiese  birds  sometimes 
brought  messages,  written  on  a  little  paper,  and  tied  under  their 
wings,  and  that  Perreau  said  there  was  nothing  because  there  was 
nothing. 

"  Oh,  then !  he  sometimes  does  have  messages  with  his 
birds?"  ■ 

The  Chevalier  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  took  a  great  pinch 
out  of  his  fine  snufi-box.  "Wliat  did  Papa  Duval  do  to  you  the 
other  day  when  you  began  to  talk  too  fast?"  says  he.  "Learn  to 
hold  thy  little  tongue,  Denis,  man  garron.  If  thou  livcst  a  little 
longer,  and  tellest  all  thou  seest,  the  Lord  help  thee ! "     And   I 


492  DENIS    DUVAL 

suppose  our  conversation  ended  here,  and  he  strode  home,  and  1 
trotted  after  him. 

I  narrate  these  things  occurring  in  childhood  by  the  help  of  one 
or  two  marks  Avhich  have  been  left  behind — as  the  ingenious  boy 
found  his  way  home  by  tlie  pebbles  which  he  dropped  along  his 
line  of  march.  Thus  I  happen  to  know  the  year  when  poor 
Miulame  de  Saverne  must  have  been  ill,  by  referring  to  the  date  of 
the  execution  of  the  woman  whom  our  neighbour  saw  burned  on 
Penenden  Heath.  Was  it  days,  was  it  weeks  after  this  that 
Madame  de  Saverne's  illness  ended  as  all  our  illnesses  will  end 
one  day  ? 

During  the  whole  course  of  her  illness,  whatever  its  length  may 
have  been,  those  priests  from  Slindon  (or  from  Mr.  Weston's  the 
Popish  gentleman's  at  the  Priory)  were  constantly  in  our  house, 
and  I  suppose  created  a  great  scandal  among  the  Protestants  of  the 
town.  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  sliowed  an  extraordinary  zeal  in  this 
business  ;  and,  sinner  as  he  was,  certainly  was  a  most  devout  sinner, 
according  to  his  persuasion.  I  do  not  remember,  or  was  not 
cognisant,  when  the  end  came  ;  but  I  remember  my  astonishment 
as,  passing  by  her  open  chamber  door,  I  saw  candles  lighted  before 
her  bed,  and  some  of  those  clergy  watching  there,  and  the  Chevalier 
de  la  Motte  kneeUng  in  the  passage  in  an  attitude  of  deep  contrition 
and  grief. 

On  that  last  day  there  was,  as  it  appeared,  a  great  noise  and 
disturbance  round  our  house.  The  people  took  offence  at  the 
perpetual  coming  in  and  out  of  the  priest ;  and  on  the  very  night 
when  the  coffin  was  to  be  taken  from  our  house,  and  the  clergymen 
were  performing  the  last  services  tliere,  the  wuadows  of  the  room, 
where  the  poor  lady  lay,  were  broken  in  by  a  great  volley  of  stones, 
and  a  roaring  mob  shouting,  "  No  Popery  !     Down  with  the  priests ! " 

Grandfather  lost  all  courage  at  these  threatening  demonstrations, 
and  screamed  out  at  his  bru  for  bringing  all  this  persecution  and 
danger  upon  iiim.  "  Silence,  miserable  !  "  says  she.  "  Go  sit  in 
the  back  kitchen,  and  count  your  money-bags  ! "  She,  at  least,  did 
not  lose  her  courage. 

Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  though  not  frightened,  was  much  dis- 
tiu'bed.  The  matter  might  be  very  serious.  I  did  not  know  at 
the  time  how  furiously  angry  our  townspeople  were  with  my 
parents  for  harbouring  a  Papist.  Had  they  known  that  the  lady 
was  a  converted  Protestant,  they  would,  doubtless,  have  been  more 
violent  still. 

We  were  in  a  manner  besieged  in  our  house  ;  the  garrison 
being — the  two  priests  in  much  terror  ;  my  grandfather,  under 
the  bed  for  what  I  know,  or  somewhere  where  he  would  be  equally 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  493 

serviceable ;  my  mother  and  the  Chevalier,  with  their  wits  about 
them ;  and  little  Denis  Duval,  no  doubt  very  much  in  the  way. 
When  the  poor  lady  died  it  was  thought  advisable  to  send  her 
little  girl  out  of  the  way  ;  and  Mrs.  Weston  at  the  Priory  took  her 
in,  who  belonged,  as  has  before  been  said,  to  the  ancient  faith. 

We  looked  out  with  no  little  alarm  for  the  time  when  the 
hearse  should  come  to  take  the  poor  lady's  body  away  ;  i'or  the 
people  would  not  leave  the  street,  and  barricaded  either  end  of  it, 
having  perpetrated  no  actual  violence  beyond  the  smashing  of  the 
windows  as  yet,  but  ready  no  doubt  for  more  mischief. 

Calling  me  to  him.  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  said,  "Denis,  thou 
rememberest  about  the  carrier  i)igeon  the  other  day  Avith  nothing 
under  his  wing  ? "     I  remendiered,  of  course. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  my  carrier  ])igeon.  Thou  shalt  carry  no  letter, 
but  a  message.  I  can  trust  thee  now  with  a  secret."  And  I  kept 
it,  and  will  tell  it  now  that  the  people  are  quite  out  of  danger  frcm 
that  piece  of  intelligence,  as  I  can  promise  you. 

"You  know  Mr.  Weston's  house?"  Know  the  house  where 
Agnes  was — the  best  house  in  the  town  1  Of  course  I  did.  He 
named  eight  or  ten  houses  besides  Weston's  at  which  I  was  to  go 
and  say,  "  The  mackerel  are  coming  in.  Come  as  many  of  you  as 
can."  And  I  went  to  the  houses,  and  said  the  words ;  and  when 
the  people  said  "  Where  1"  I  said,  "Opposite  our  house,"  and  so 
went  on. 

The  last  and  handsomest  house  (I  had  never  been  in  it  before) 
was  Mr.  Weston's,  at  the  Priory  :  and  there  I  went  and  called  to 
see  him.  And  I  remember  Mrs.  Weston  was  walking  up  and  down 
a  gallery  over  the  hall  witli  a  little  crying  child  who  would  not  go 
to  sleep. 

"  Agnes,  Agnes  !  "  says  I,  and  that  baby  was  quiet  in  a  minute, 
snuling,  and  crowing,  and  flinging  out  her  arms.  Indeed,  mine  was 
the  first  name  she  could  speak. 

The  gentlemen  came  out  of  their  parlour,  where  they  were  over 
their  pipes,  and  asked  me,  surlily  enough,  what  I  wanted.  I  said, 
"  The  mackerel  are  out,  and  the  crews  are  wanted  before  Peter 
Duval's,  the  barber's."  And  one  of  them,  with  a  scowl  on  his 
face,  and  an  oath,  said  they  would  be  there,  and  shut  the  door  in 
my  face. 

As  I  went  away  from  the  Priory,  and  crossed  the  churchyard 
by  the  Rectory  gate,  who  should  come  up  l)ut  Doctor  Barnard  in 
his  gig,  with  lamps  lighted  :  and  I  always  saluted  him  after  he  had 
been  so  kind  to  me,  and  had  given  me  the  books  and  the  cake. 
"  What,"  says  he,  "  my  little  shrimper !  Have  you  fetched  any 
fish  off  the  rocks  to-night  ?  " 


494  DENIS    DUVAL 

"  Oh,  no,  sir ! "  says  I.  "  I  have  been  takuig  messages  all 
round." 

"  And  what  message,  my  boy  1 " 

I  told  him  the  message  about  the  mackerel,  izc. ;  but  added 
that  I  must  not  tell  the  names,  for  the  Chevalier  had  desired  me 
not  to  mention  tliem.  And  then  I  went  on  to  tell  how  there  was  a 
great  crowd  in  the  street,  and  that  they  were  breaking  windows  at 
our  house. 

"Breaking  windows?  What  for?"  I  told  him  wliat  had  hap- 
pened. "  Take  Dolly  to  the  stables.  Don't  say  anything  to  your 
mistress,  Samuel,  and  come  along  with  me,  my  little  shrimper," 
says  the  Doctor.  He  was  a  very  tall  man  in  a  great  white  wig. 
I  see  him  now  skipping  over  tlie  tonilistones,  by  the  great  ivy 
tower  of  the  chun-h,  and  so  tlirough  the  churchyard-gate  towards 
our  house. 

The  hearse  had  arrived  by  this  time.  The  crowd  had  increased, 
and  there  was  much  disturbance  and  agitation.  As  soon  as  the 
hearse  came,  a  yell  rose  up  from  the  people.  "  Silence !  shame  ! 
Hold  your  tongue  !  Let  the  poor  woman  go  in  quiet,"  a  few  people 
said.  These  were  the  men  of  the  macherel  fishery ;  whom  the 
Weston  gentlemen  presently  joined.  But  the  fishermen  were  a 
small  crowd ;  the  townspeople  were  many  and  very  angry.  As  we 
passed  liy  the  end  of  Port  Street  (wliere  our  house  was)  we  could 
see  the  people  crowding  at  either  end  of  the  street,  and  in  the  midst 
the  great  hearse  with  its  black  plumes  before  our  door. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  hearse  could  pass  through  the  crowd 
at  either  end  of  the  street,  if  the  people  were  determined  to  bar  the 
way.  I  went  in,  as  I  had  come,  by  the  back  gate  of  the  garden, 
where  the  lane  was  still  quite  Bolitarj',  Doctor  Barnard  following 
me.  We  were  awfully  scared  as  we  passed  through  the  back 
kitchen  (where  the  oven  and  boiler  are)  by  the  sight  of  an  individual 
who  suddenly  leapt  out  of  the  copper,  and  who  cried  out,  "  0 
mercy,  mercy !  save  me  from  the  wicked  men ! "  This  was  my 
grandpapa,  and  with  all  respect  for  grandpapas  (being  of  their  age 
and  standing  myself  now),  I  cannot  luit  own  that  mine  on  this 
occasion  cut  rather  a  pitiful  figure. 

"  Save  my  house  !  Save  my  property  !  "  shouts  my  ancestor, 
and  the  Doctor  turns  away  from  him  scornfidly,  and  passes  on. 

In  the  passage  out  of  this  back  kitchen  we  met  Monsieur  de  la 
Motte,  who  says,  "  Ah,  c'est  tf)i,  men  gar(^on  !  Thou  hast  been  on 
thy  errands  ?  Our  people  are  well  there  ? "  and  he  makes  a  bow  to 
the  Doctor,  who  came  in  with  me,  and  who  replied  by  a  salutation 
equally  stiff.  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  reconnoitring  from  the  upper 
room,  had,  no  doubt,  seen  his  people  arrive.     As  I  looked  towards 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  495 

him  I  remarked  that  he  was  armed.  He  had  a  belt  with  pistols  in 
it,  and  a  sword  by  his  side. 

In  the  back  room  were  tlie  two  Roman  Catholic  clergymen,  and 
four  men  who  had  come  with  the  hearse.  Tliey  had  been  fiercely 
assailed  as  they  entered  the  house  with  curses,  shouts,  liustling,  and 
I  believe  even  sticks  and  stones.  My  mother  was  serving  them 
with  brandy  wiien  we  came  in.  She  was  astonished  when  she  saw 
the  Rector  make  his  appearance  in  our  house.  There  was  no  love 
between  his  Reverence  and  our  family. 

He  made  a  A'cry  grand  obeisance  to  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy- 
men. "Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "as  rector  of  this  parish,  and  magis- 
trate of  the  county,  I  have  come  to  keep  the  peace,  and  if  there  is 
any  danger,  to  share  it  with  you.  The  lady  will  be  buried  in  the 
old  churchyard,  I  hear.     Mr.  Trestles,  are  you  ready  to  move  1 " 

The  men  said  they  would  be  i)repared  immediately,  and  went 
to  bring  down  their  melancholy  Ijurden.  "  Ojien  the  door,  you  !  " 
says  the  Doctor.  The  peojde  within  shrank  back.  "  /  will  do 
it,"  says  Mother. 

"  Et  moi,  parbleu  ! "  says  the  Chevalier  advancing,  liis  hand 
on  his  hilt. 

"  I  think,  sir,  I  .shall  be  more  servicealile  than  you,"  says  the 
Doctor,  very  coldly.  "  If  these  gentlemen  my  confrh-es  are  ready, 
we  will  go  out ;  I  will  go  first,  as  rector  of  this  parish."  And 
Mother  drew  the  bolts,  and  he  walked  out  and  took  off  his  hat. 

A  Babel  roar  of  yells,  shouts,  curses  came  pouring  into  the 
hall  as  the  door  opened,  and  the  Doctor  remained  on  the  steps, 
bareheaded  and  undaunted. 

"How  many  of  my  parishioners  are  here?  Stand  aside  all  who 
come  to  my  church  ! "  lie  called  out  very  bold. 

At  this  arose  immense  roars  of  "  No  Popery  !  down  with  the 
priests  !  down  with  them  !  drown  them  ! "  and  I  know  not  what 
more  words  of  hatred  and  menace. 

"You  men  of  the  French  church,"  shouted  out  the  Doctor, 
"  are  you  here  1 " 

"  We  are  here  !     Down  with  Popery  !  "  roar  the  Frenchmen. 

"  Because  you  were  persecuted  a  hundred  years  ago,  you  want 
to  persecute  in  your  turn.  Is  that  what  your  Bible  teaches  you? 
Mine  doesn't.  When  your  church  wanted  repair,  I  gave  you  my 
nave,  where  you  had  your  service,  and  were  welcome.  Is  this 
the  way  you  repay  kindness  which  has  been  shown  to  you,  you 
who  ought  to  know  better  1  For  shame  on  you  !  I  say,  for 
shame  !  Don't  try  and  frighten  me.  Roger  Hooker,  I  know  you, 
you  poaching  vagabond  !  Who  kejtt  your  wife  and  children  when 
you  were  at  Lewes  Gaol  1     How  dare  you  be  persecuting  anybodj', 


496  DENIS    DUVAL 

Thomas  Flint  1  As  sure  as  my  name  is  Barnard,  if  you  stop  this 
procession,  I  will  commit  you  to-morrow." 

Here  was  a  cry  of  "  Huzzay  for  the  Doctor !  huzzay  for  the 
Rector ! "  which  I  am  afraid  came  from  the  mackerels,  who  were 
assembled  by  this  time,  and  were  not  mum,  as  fish  generally  are. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  advance,  if  you  i)lease  ! "  This  he  said  to 
the  two  foreign  clergymen,  who  came  forward  (courageously  enough, 
the  Clievalier  de  la  Motte  walking  behind  them.  "  Listen,  you 
friends  and  parishioners,  Churclimen  and  Dissenters !  These  two 
foreign  dissenting  clergymen  are  going  to  bury,  in  a  neighbouring 
churchyard,  a  departed  sister,  as  you  foreign  dissenters  have  buried 
your  own  dead  without  harm  or  liindrance ;  and  I  will  accomi)any 
these  gentlemen  to  the  grave  prepared  for  the  deceased  lady,  and 
I  will  see  her  laid  in  peace  there,  as  surely  as  I  hope  myself  to 
lie  in  peace." 

Here  the  people  shouted ;  but  it  was  with  admiration  for  the 
Rector.  There  was  no  outcry  any  more.  The  little  procession 
fell  into  an  orderly  rank,  passed  through  the  streets,  and  round 
the  Protestant  church  to  the  old  burying-ground  behind  the  house 
of  the  Priory.  The  Rector  walked  between  the  two  Roman 
Catholic  clergymen.  I  imagine  tlie  scene  before  me  now — the 
tramp  of  the  people,  tlie  flicker  of  a  torch  or  two ;  and  then  we 
go  in  at  the  gate  of  the  Priory  ground  into  the  old  graveyard  of 
the  monastery,  where  a  grave  had  been  dug,  on  which  the  stone 
still  tells  that  Clarissa,  born  De  Viomesnil,  and  widow  of  Francis 
Stanislas  Count  of  Savenie  and  Barr  in  Lorraine,  lies  buried 
beneatli. 

When  the  service  was  ended,  the  Chevalier  de  la  Motte  (by 
whose  side  I  stood,  holding  by  his  cloak)  came  up  to  the  Doctor. 
"  Monsieur  le  Docteur,"  says  he,  "  you  have  acted  like  a  gallant 
man  ;  you  have  prevented  bloodshed " 

"  I  am  fortunate,  sir,"  says  the  Doctor. 

"  You  have  saved  the  lives  of  these  two  worthy  ecclesiastics, 
and  rescued  from  insult  the  remains  of  one " 

"Of  whom  I  know  the  sad  history,"  says  the  Doctor,  very 
gravely. 

"I  am  not  rich,  but  wnll  you  permit  me  to  give  this  purse 
for  your  poor  1 " 

"Sir,  it  is  my  duty  to  accept  it,"  replied  the  Doctor.  The 
purse  contained  a  hundred  louis,  as  he  afterwards  told  me. 

"And  may  I  ask  to  take  your  hand,  sir?"  cries  the  poor 
Chevalier,  clasping  his  own  together. 

"  No,  sir  ! "  said  the  Doctor,  putting  his  own  hands  behind  his 
back.     "  Your  hands  have  that  on  them  which  the  gift  of  a  few 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS  497 

guineas  cannot  wasli  away."  The  Doctor  spoke  very  gooil  Fi-encli. 
"My  child,  good-night;  and  the  best  thing  I  can  wish  thee  is  to 
wish  thee  out  of  tlie  hands  of  that  man." 

"  ]\Ionsieiir ! "  says  the  Chevalier,  laying  his  hand  on  his  swonl 
mechanically. 

"  I  think,  sir,  the  last  time  it  was  with  the  pistol  you  showed 
your  skill ! "  says  Doctor  Barnard,  and  went  in  at  his  own  wicket 
as  he  spoke,  leaving  poor  La  Motte  like  a  man  who  has  just  been 
struck  with  a  blow ;  and  then  he  fell  to  weeping  and  crying  that 
the  curse — the  curse  of  Cain  was  upon  him. 

"  My  good  boy,"  the  old  Rector  said  to  me  in  after  days,  wh'le 
talking  over  these  adventures,  "  thy  friend  the  Chevalier  was  the 
most  infernal  scoundrel  I  ever  set  eyes  on,  and  I  never  looked  at 
his  foot  without  ex])ecting  to  see  it  was  cloven." 

"  And  could  he  tell  me  anything  about  the  poor  Countess  1 " 
I  asked.  He  knew  nothing.  He  saw  her  but  once,  he  thought. 
"And  faith,"  says  he,  with  an  arch  look,  "it  so  happened  that  I 
was  not  too  intimate  with  your  own  worthy  family." 

32 


CHAPTER   V 

/  IIE.^R   THE  SOUND  OF  BOIF  BELLS 

WHATEVER  may  liave  been  the  Rector's  dislike  to  my 
parents,  in  respect  of  us  juniors  and  my  dear  little  Agues 
de  Saverne  he  had  no  such  prejudices,  and  both  of  us 
wore  <,freat  favourites  with  him.  He  considered  himself  to  be  a 
man  entirely  without  prejudices ;  and  towards  Roman  Catholics  he 
certaiidy  was  most  liberal.  He  sent  his  wife  to  see  Mrs.  Weston, 
and  an  acquaintance  was  made  between  the  families,  who  had 
scarcely  known  each  other  before.  Little  Agnes  was  constantly 
with  these  Westons,  with  whom  tlie  Chevalier  de  la  INIotte  also 
became  intimate.  Indeed,  we  have  seen  that  he  nnist  have  known 
them  already,  when  he  sent  me  on  the  famous  "  mackerel "  message 
whicli  brought  together  a  score  at  least  of  townspeople.  I  remember 
Mrs.  Weston  as  a  frightened-looking  woman,  who  seemed  as  if  she 
had  a  ghost  constantly  before  her.  Frightened,  however,  or  not, 
she  was  always  kind  to  my  little  Agnes. 

The  younger  of  the  Weston  brothers  (he  who  swore  at  me 
tlie  night  of  the  burial)  was  a  red-eyed,  pimple-foced,  cock- 
fighting  gentleman  for  ever  on  the  trot,  and  known,  I  daresay 
not  very  favourably,  all  the  country  ronnd.  They  were  said  to 
be  gentlemen  of  good  private  means.  They  lived  in  a  pretty 
genteel  way,  Avith  a  post-chaise  for  the  lady,  and  excellent  nags 
to  ride.  They  saw  very  little  company ;  but  this  may  have 
been  because  they  were  Roman  Catholics,  of  whom  there  were 
not  many  in  the  county,  except  at  Arundel  and  Slindon,  where 
the  lords  and  ladies  Avere  of  too  great  quality  to  associate  with 
a  pair  of  mere  fox-hunting,  horse-dealing  squires.  Monsieur  de 
la  Motte,  who  was  quite  the  fine  gentleman,  as  I  have  .said, 
associated  with  these  people  freely  enough:  but  then  he  had 
interests  in  common  with  them,  which  I  began  to  understand  when 
I  was  some  ten  or  a  dozen  years  old,  and  used  to  go  to  see  my 
little  Agnes  at  the  Priory.  She  was  growing  apace  to  be  a  fine 
lady.  She  had  dancing-masters,  music-masters,  language-masters 
(those  foreign  tonsured  gentry  who  were  always  about  the  Priory), 
and  was   so  tall  that   Mother  talked   of  putting   powder   in    her 


I    HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS      499 

hair.       Ah,  belle    dame !    another   liaml    hath    since  whitened    it, 
though  I  love  it,  ebony  or  silver  ! 

I  continued  at  Rye  School,  boarding  ^vitll  Mr.  Rudge  and  his 
dram-drinking  daughter,  and  got  a  pretty  fair  smattering  of  such 
learning  as  "was  to  be  had  at  the  school.  I  had  a  fancy  to  go  to 
sea,  but  Doctor  Barnard  was  sti'ong  against  that  wish  of  mine  : 
unless  indeed  I  should  go  out  of  Rye  and  AVinchelsea  altogetlier— 
get  into  a  King's  ship,  and  ])erhaps  on  the  (luarter-deck,  under  the 
patromige  of  my  friend  Sir  Peter  Denis,  who  ever  continued  to  be 
kind  to  me. 

Every  Saturday  night  I  trudged  home  from  Rye,  as  gay  as 
schoolboy  could  be.  After  Madame  de  Saverne's  deatli  the 
Chevalier  de  la  Motte  took  our  lodgings  on  the  first-floor.  He 
was  of  an  active  disposition,  and  found  business  in  plenty  to  occupy 
him.  He  would  be  absent  from  his  lodgings  for  weeks  and  months. 
He  made  journeys  on  liorseback  into  the  interior  of  the  country ; 
went  to  London  often  ;  and  sometimes  al)road  Avith  our  fishei-men's 
boats.  As  I  have  said,  he  learned  our  language  well,  and  taught 
me  his.  Mother's  German  was  better  than  her  French,  and  my 
book  for  reading  the  German  was  Doctor  Luther's  Bible ;  indeed, 
that  very  volume  in  which  poor  Monsieur  de  Saverne  wrote  down 
his  prayer  for  the  child  Avhom  he  was  to  see  only  twice  in  this 
world. 

Though  Agnes's  little  chamber  was  always  ready  at  our  house, 
where  she  was  treated  like  a  little  lady,  having  a  servant  specially 
attached  to  her,  and  all  the  world  to  spoil  her,  she  passed  a  great 
deal  of  time  with  Mrs.  Weston,  of  the  Priory,  who  took  a  great 
affection  for  the  child  even  before  she  lost  her  own  daughter.  I 
have  said  that  good  masters  were  here  found  for  her.  She  learned 
to  speak  English  as  a  native,  of  course,  and  French  and  nmsic  from 
the  fathers  who  always  were  about  the  house.  Whatever  the 
child's  expenses  or  wants  were,  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  generously 
defrayed  them.  After  his  journeys  he  would  bring  her  back  toys, 
sweetmeats,  knicknacks  fit  for  a  little  duchess.  She  lorded  it 
over  great  and  small  in  the  Priory,  in  the  Perruqiiery,  as  we  may 
call  my  mother's  house,  ay,  and  in  the  Rectory  too,  wdiere  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Barnard  were  her  very  humble  servants,  like  all  the  rest 
of  us. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  was  made  to  liecome  a 
mendier  of  the  Chiu-cli  of  England,  because  Mother  took  hufl"  at  our 
French  Protestants,  who  would  continue  persecuting  her  for  harbour- 
ing the  Papists,  and  insisted  that  Itetween  the  late  poor  Countess 
and  the  Chevalier  there  had  been  an  unlawful  intimacy.      Monsieur 


500  DENIS    DUVAL 

Bore],  our  pastor,  i)reached  at  poor  Mother  several  times,  she  said 
I  did  not  uiidcr,staii(l  his  innuendoes,  being  a  simple  child,  I  fear  not 
caring  much  for  sermons  in  those  days.  For  Grandpapa's  I  know 
I  did  not ;  he  used  to  give  us  half-an-hour  at  morning,  and  lialf-an- 
hour  at  evening.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  Grandfather  skipping 
out  of  the  copper,  and  calling  on  us  to  spare  his  life  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral ;  and  his  preaching  went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  t'other. 
One  day — a  propos  of  some  pomatum  which  a  customer  wanted  to 
buy,  and  which  I  knew  Mother  made  with  lard  and  bergamot  her- 
self— I  heard  him  tell  such  a  fib  to  a  customer,  that  somehow  I 
never  could  respect  the  oLl  man  afterwards.  He  actually  said  the 
pomatum  had  just  come  to  him  from  France  direct — from  the 
Dauphin's  own  hairdresser :  and  our  neighljour,  I  daresay,  would 
have  bought  it,  but  I  said,  "  Oh,  Grandpapa,  you  must  mean  some 
other  pomatum  !  I  saw  Mother  make  this  with  her  own  hands." 
Grandfather  actually  began  to  cry  when  I  said  this.  He  said  I  was 
being  his  death.  He  asked  that  somebody  should  fetch  him  out 
and  hang  him  that  moment.  Why  is  there  no  bear,  says  he,  to  eat 
that  little  monster's  head  off  and  destroy  that  prodigy  of  crime? 
Nay,  I  used  to  think  I  tvas  a  monster  sometimes  :  he  would  go  on 
so  fiercely  about  my  wickedness  and  perverseness. 

Doctor  Barnard  was  passing  by  our  pole  one  day,  and  our  open 
door,  when  Grandfather  was  preaching  upon  this  sin  of  mine,  with 
a  sti-ap  in  one  liand,  laying  over  my  shoulders  in  the  intervals  of 
the  discourse.  Down  goes  the  strap  in  a  minute,  as  the  Doctor's 
lean  figure  makes  its  appearance  at  the  door ;  and  Grandfather  begins 
to  smirk  and  bow,  and  hope  his  Reverence  was  well.  My  heart 
was  full.  I  had  had  sermon  in  the  morning,  and  sermon  at  night, 
and  strapping  every  day  that  week  ;  and  Heaven  help  me,  I  loathed 
that  old  man,  and  loathe  him  still. 

"How  can  I,  sir,"  says  I,  bursting  out  into  a  passion  of  tears — 
"  How  can  I   honour  my  grandfather  and  mother,  if  Grandfather 

tells  such  d lies  as  he  does  1 "     And  I  stamped  with  my  feet, 

trembling  with  wrath  and  indignation  at  the  disgrace  put  upon  me. 
I  then  burst  out  with  my  story,  which  there  was  no  controverting ; 
and  I  will  say  Grandfather  looked  at  me  as  if  he  would  kill  me ; 
and  I  ended  my  tale  sobbing  at  the  Doctor's  knees. 

"  Listen,  Mr.  Duval,"  says  Doctor  Barnard,  very  sternly :  "  I 
know  a  great  deal  more  than  you  think  about  you  and  your  doings. 
My  advice  to  you  is  to  treat  this  child  well,  and  to  leave  off  some 
practices  which  will  get  you  into  trouble,  as  sure  as  your  name  is 
what  it  is.  I  know  where  your  pigeons  go  to,  and  where  they 
come  from.  And  some  day,  when  I  have  you  in  my  justice-room, 
we  shall  see  whether  I  will  show  you  any  more  mercy  than  you 


I   HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS      501 

have  shown  to  this  cliild.     I  know  you  to  be "  and  the  Doctor 

whispered  something  into  Grandfather's  ears  and  stalked  away. 

Can  you  guess  liy  what  name  the  Doctor  called  my  grandfather  ? 
If  he  called  liim  hypocrite,  ma  foi,  he  was  not  far  wrong.  But 
the  truth  is,  he  called  him  smuggler,  and  that  was  a  name  which 
fitted  hundreds  of  people  along  our  coast,  I  promise  you.  At 
Hythe,  at  Folkestone,  at  Dover,  Deal,  Sandwich,  there  were  scores 
and  scores  of  these  gentry.  All  the  way  to  London  they  had 
depots,  friemls,  and  correspondents.  Inland  and  along  the  Thames 
there  were  battles  endless  between  them  and  the  revenue  people. 
Our  friends  "the  mackerel,"  who  came  out  at  Monsieur  de  la 
Motte's  summons,  of  course  were  of  this  calling.  One  day  when  lie 
came  home  from  one  of  his  expeditions,  I  remember  jumi)ing  forward 
to  welcome  him,  for  he  was  at  one  time  very  kind  to  me,  and  as  I 
ran  into  his  arms  he  started  back,  and  shrieked  out  an  oath  and  a 
sacre  bleu  or  two.  He  was  wounded  in  the  arm.  Tliere  had  l>een 
a  regular  battle  at  Deal  between  the  dragoons  and  revenue  officers 
on  the  one  side,  and  the  smugglers  and  their  friends.  Cavalry  had 
charged  cavalry,  and  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  (liis  smuggling  name, 
he  told  me  afterwards,  was  Mr.  Paul,  or  Pole)  had  fought  on  the 
mackerel  side. 

So  were  my  gentlemen  at  the  Priory  of  the  Mackerel  party. 
Why,  I  could  name  you  great  names  of  merchants  and  bankers  at 
Canterbury,  Dover,  Rocliester,  who  were  engaged  in  this  traffic. 
My  grandfather,  you  see,  howled  with  the  wolves ;  but  then  he 
used  to  wear  a  snug  lamb's  skin  over  his  wolf's  hide.  Ah,  shall  I 
thank  Heaven,  like  the  Pharisee,  that  I  am  not  as  those  men  are  ? 
I  hope  there  is  no  harm  in  being  thankful  that  I  have  been  brought 
out  of  temjitation ;  that  I  was  not  made  a  rogue  at  a  child's  age ; 
and  tliat  I  did  not  c(nne  to  the  gallows  as  a  man.  Such  a  fate 
has  befallen  more  than  one  of  the  precious  friends  of  my  youth,  as 
I  sliall  have  to  relate  in  due  season. 

Tliat  habit  I  had  of  speaking  out  everything  that  was  on  my 
mind,  brought  me,  as  a  child,  into  innumerable  scrapes,  but  I  do 
thankfully  believe  has  preserved  me  from  still  greater.  AVIiat 
could  you  do  with  a  little  chatterbox,  who,  when  his  grandfather 
offered  to  sell  a  pot  of  pomatum  as  your  true  Pommade  de  Cythere, 
must  cry  out,  "  No,  Grandpapa,  Mother  made  it  with  marrow  and 
bergamot "  1  If  anything  happened  which  I  was  not  to  mention,  I 
was  sure  to  blunder  out  some  account  of  it.  Good  Doctor  Barnard, 
and  my  patron  Cai»tain  Denis  (who  was  a  great  friend  of  oiu- 
Rector),  I  supjiose  used  to  joke  about  this  propensity  of  mine,  and 
would  laugh  for  ten  minutes  together,  as  I  told  my  stories  ;  and  I 
think  the  Doctor  had  a  serious  conversation  with  my  mother  on 


502  DENIS    DUVAL 

the  matter ;  for  she  said,  "  He  has  reason.  The  boy  shall  not 
go  any  more.  We  will  try  and  have  one  honest  man  in  the 
family." 

Go  any  more  lohere  ?  Now  I  will  tell  you  (and  I  am  much 
more  ashamed  of  this  than  of  the  barber's  pole,  Monsieur  mon  fils, 
that  I  can  promise  you).  When  I  was  boarding  at  the  grocer's  at 
Rye,  I  and  other  boys  were  constantly  down  at  the  Avater,  and  we 
learned  to  manage  a  boat  pretty  early.  Rudge  did  not  go  out  him- 
self, being  rheumatic  and  lazy,  but  his  apprentice  would  be  absent 
frequently  all  night ;  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  I  went  out  as 
odd  boy  in  the  boat  to  put  my  hand  to  anything. 

Those  pigeons  I  spoke  of  anon  came  from  Boulogne.  When 
one  arrived  he  brought  a  signal  that  our  Boulogne  correspondent 
was  on  his  way,  and  we  might  be  on  the  look-out.  The  French 
boat  would  make  for  a  point  agreed  upon,  and  we  lay  off  until 
she  came.  We  took  cargo  from  her :  barrels  without  number,  I 
remember.  Once  we  saw  her  chased  away  by  a  revenue  cutter. 
Once  the  same  ship  fired  at  us.  I  did  not  know  what  the  balls 
were,  which  splashed  close  alongside  of  us ;  but  I  remember  the 
apprentice  of  Rudge's  (he  useil  to  make  love  to  Miss  R.,  and  married 
her  afterwards)  singing  out,  "  Lord,  have  mercy ! "  in  an  awful 
consternation,  and  the  Chevalier  crying  out,  "Hold  your  tongue, 
miserable !  You  were  never  born  to  be  drowned  or  shot."  He 
had  some  hesitation  about  taking  me  out  on  this  expedition.  He 
was  engaged  in  running  smuggled  goods,  that  is  the  fact ;  and 
"  smuggler  "  was  the  word  which  Doctor  Barnard  whispered  in  my 
grandfatlier's  ear.  If  we  were  hard  pressed  at  certain  points  which 
we  knew,  and  could  ascertain  by  cross-bearings  which  we  took,  we 
would  sink  our  kegs  till  a  more  convenient  time,  and  then  return 
and  drag  for  them,  and  l)ring  them  up  with  line  and  grapnel. 

I  certainly  behaved  much  better  when  we  were  fired  at,  than 
that  oaf  of  a  Bevil,  who  lay  howling  his  "  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
us  !  "  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat ;  but  somehow  the  Chevalier  dis- 
couraged my  juvenib  efforts  in  the  smuggling  line,  from  his  fear  of 
that  unlucky  tongue  of  mine,  wliicji  would  blab  everything  I  knew. 
I  may  have  been  out  a-fishin;!  half-a-dozen  times  in  all,  but  especi- 
ally after  we  had  been  fired  at.  La,  Motte  was  for  leaving  me  at 
home.  My  mother  was  averse,  too,  to  my  becoming  a  seaman  (a 
smuggler)  by  ])rofession.  Her  aim  was  to  make  a  gentleman  of  me, 
she  said,  and  I  am  most  unfeignedly  thankful  to  her  for  her  keeping 
me  out  of  mischiefs  way.  Had  I  been  permitted  to  herd  along 
with  the  black  sheep.  Doctor  Barnard  woulil  never  have  been  so 
kind  to  me  as  he  was ;  and  indeed  that  good  man  showed  me  the 
greatest  favour.     When  I  came  home  from  school  he  would  often 


I    HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS      503 

have  me  to  the  Rectory,  and  hear  me  my  lessons,  and  lie  Wiis 
pleased  to  say  I  was  a  lively  boy  of  good  parts. 

The  Doctor  received  rents  for  his  college  at  Oxford,  which  has 
considerable  property  in  these  parts,  and  twice  a  year  would  go 
to  London  and  pay  the  moneys  over.  Li  my  boyish  times  these 
journeys  to  London  were  by  no  means  without  danger ;  and  if  you 
will  take  a  Gentlemmi's  Magazine  from  tlie  shelf  you  will  find  a 
highway  robbery  or  two  in  every  month's  clu'onicle.  We  boys  at 
school  were  never  tired  of  talking  of  highwaymen  and  their  feats. 
As  I  often  had  to  walk  over  to  Rye  from  home  of  a  night  (so  as  to 
be  in  time  for  early  morning  school),  I  nuist  needs  buy  a  little  brass- 
barrelled  pistol,  with  which  I  practised  in  secret,  and  which  I  had 
to  hide,  lest  Mother,  or  Rudge,  or  the  schoolmaster  should  take  it 
away  from  me.  Once  as  I  was  talking  Avitli  a  schoolfellow,  and 
vapouring  about  what  we  would  do,  M-ere  we  attacked,  I  fired  my 
pistol,  and  shot  away  a  piece  of  his  coat.  I  might  have  hit  his 
stomach,  not  his  coat — Heaven  be  good  to  us  ! — and  this  accident 
made  me  more  careful  in  the  use  of  my  artillery.  And  now  I  used 
to  practice  with  small  shot  instead  of  bullets,  and  pop  at  sparrows 
whenever  I  could  get  a  chance. 

At  Michaelmas,  in  the  year  1776  (I  ])romise  j'ou  I  remember 
the  year),  my  dear  and  kind  friend,  l)octor  Barnard,  having  to  go 
to  London  with  his  rents,  proposed  to  tiike  me  to  London  to  sec  niy 
other  patron.  Sir  Peter  Denis,  between  whom  and  the  Doctor  there 
was  a  great  friendship ;  and  it  is  to  those  dear  friends  that  I  owe 
the  great  good  fortune  which  has  befallen  me  in  life.  Indeed,  when 
I  think  of  what  I  might  have  been,  and  of  what  I  have  escaped, 
my  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness  for  the  great  mercies  which  have 
feUen  to  my  share.  Well,  at  this  happy  and  eventful  Michaelmas 
of  1776,  Doctor  Barnard  says  to  me,  "  Denis,  my  child,  if  thy 
mother  will  grant  leave,  I  have  a  mind  to  take  thee  to  see  tliy 
godfather,  Sir  Peter  Denis,  in  London.  I  am  going  up  with  my 
rents,  my  neighbour  AVeston  will  share  the  liorses  with  me,  and 
thou  shalt  see  the  Tower  and  Mrs.  Salmon's  waxwork  before  thou 
art  a  week  older." 

You  may  suppose  that  this  proposition  made  Master  Denis 
Duval  jump  for  joy.  Of  course  I  had  heard  of  London  all  my 
life,  and  talked  with  people  who  had  been  there,  but  that  I 
should  go  myself  to  Admiral  Sir  Peter  Denis's  house,  and  see  the 
play,  Saint  Paul's,  and  Mrs.  Salmon's,  here  was  a  height  of  bliss 
I  never  had  hoped  to  attain.  I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 
my  pleasure  ;  I  had  some  money,  and  I  promised  to  buy  as  many 
toys  for  Agnes  as  the  Chevalier  used  to  bring  her.  My  mother 
said  I  should  go  like  a  gentleman,   and  turned   me  out  in  a  red 


504  DENIS    DUVAL 

waistcoat  with  plate  buttons,  a  cock  to  my  hat,  and  ruffles  to 
ray  shirts.  How  I  counted  the  hours  of  the  night  before  our 
departure !  I  was  up  before  the  dawn  packing  my  little  valise. 
I  got  my  little  brass-barrelled  pocket-pistol,  and  I  loaded  it  with 
shot.  I  put  it  away  into  my  breast-pocket ;  and  if  we  met  with 
a  highwayman  I  promised  myself  he  should  have  my  charge  of 
lead  in  his  face.  Tlie  Doctor's  post-chaise  was  at  his  stables  not 
very  far  from  us.  The  stable  lanterns  were  alight,  and  Brown, 
the  Doctor's  man,  cleaning  the  carriage,  when  Mr.  Denis  Duval 
comes  up  to  the  stable  door,  lugging  his  portmanteau  after  him 
through  the  twilight.  Was  ever  daylight  so  long  a-coming"?  Ah! 
there  come  the  horses  at  last ;  the  horses  from  the  "  King's  Head," 
and  old  Pascoe,  the  one-eyed  postillion.  How  well  I  remember 
the  sound  of  their  hoofs  in  that  silent  street !  I  can  tell  every- 
thing that  happened  on  that  day  :  what  we  had  for  dinner — viz., 
veal  cutlets,  and  French  beans,  at  Maidstone  ;  where  we  changed 
horses,  and  the  colour  of  the  horses.  "  Here,  Brown  !  Here's 
my  portmanteau !  I  say,  where  shall  I  stow  it  1 "  My  port- 
manteau was  about  as  large  as  a  good-sized  apple-pie.  I  jump 
into  the  caiTiage  and  we  drive  up  to  the  Rectory  ;  and  I  think  the 
Doctor  will  never  come  out.  There  he  is  at  last  :  with  his  mouth 
full  of  buttered  toast,  and  I  bob  my  head  to  him  a  hundred  times 
out  of  the  chaise  window.  Then  I  must  jump  out,  forsooth. 
"  Brown,  shall  I  give  you  a  hand  with  the  luggage  1 "  says  I,  and 
I  daresay  they  all  laugh.  Well,  I  am  so  happy  that  anybody  may 
laugh  who  likes.  The  Doctor  comes  out,  his  precious  box  under 
his  arm.  I  see  dear  Mrs.  Barnard's  great  cap  nodding  at  us  out 
of  the  parlour  window  as  we  drive  away  from  the  Rectory  door  to 
stop  a  hundred  yards  farther  on  at  the  Priory. 

There  at  the  parlour  window  stands  my  dear  little  Agnes,  in 
a  white  frock,  in  a  great  cap  with  a  blue  riband  and  bow,  and 
curls  clustering  over  her  face.  I  wish  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  had 
painted  thee  in  those  days,  my  dear ;  but  thou  wert  the  very 
image  of  one  of  his  little  ladies,  that  one  who  became  Duchess 
of  Buccleuch  afterwards.  There  is  my  Agnes,  and  now  presently 
comes  out  Mr.  Weston's  man  and  luggage,  and  it  is  fixed  on  the 
roof  Him,  liis  master,  Mr.  George  Weston,  follows.  This  was 
the  most  good-natured  of  the  two,  and  I  shall  never  forget  my 
sensation  of  delight,  when  I  saw  him  bring  out  two  holster-pistols, 
which  he  placed  each  in  a  pocket  of  the  chaise.  Is  Tommy 
Chapman,  the  apothecary's  son  of  Westgate,  alive  yet,  and  does 
lie  remember  my  wagging  my  head  to  him  as  our  chaise  whirled 
by  1  He  was  shaking  a  mat  at  the  door  of  his  father's  shop  as 
my  lordship  accompanied  by  ray  noble  friends  passed  by. 


I    HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS      505 

First  stage,  Ham  Street,  "  The  Bear."  A  grey  horse  and  a 
bay  to  change,  /  remember  them.     Second  stage,  Ashford.     Third 

stage 1   tliink   I  am  asleep   about   the    third    stage ;    and    no 

wonder,  a  poor  little  wretch  who  had  been  awake  half  the  night 
before,  and  no  doubt  many  nights  previous,  thinking  of  this 
wonderful  journey.  Fourth  stage,  Maidstone,  "  The  Bell."  "And 
here  we  will  stop  to  ilinner,  Master  Shrimpcatcher,"  says  the 
Doctor,  and  I  jump  down  out  of  the  carriage  nothing  loth.  The 
Doctor  followed  with  his  box,  of  which  he  never  lost  sight. 

The  Do(;tor  liked  his  ease  in  his  inn,  and  took  his  sip  of  punch 
so  comfortably,  that  I,  for  my  jtart,  thought  he  never  would  be 
gone.  I  was  out  in  the  stables  and  looking  at  the  horses,  and 
talking  to  the  ostler  who  was  rubbing  his  nags  down.  I  daresay 
I  had  a  peep  into  the  kitchen,  and  at  the  pigeons  in  the  inn  yard, 
and  at  all  things  which  were  to  be  seen  at  "The  Bell,"  while  my 
two  companions  were  still  at  their  interminable  punch.  It  was 
an  old-fashioned  inn,  with  a  gallery  round  the  courtyard.  Heaven 
bless  us  !  Falstaff  and  Bardolpii  may  have  stopj^ed  there  on  the 
road  to  Gadshill.  I  was  in  the  stable  looking  at  the  nags,  when 
Mr.  Weston  comes  oiit  of  the  inn,  looks  round  the  court,  opens 
the  door  of  the  post-chaise,  takes  out  his  pistols,  looks  at  the  prim- 
ing, and  puts  them  back  again.  Then  we  are  off  again,  and  time 
enough  too.  It  seemed  to  me  many  hours  since  we  had  arrivt;d 
at  that  creaking  old  "  Bell."  And  away  we  go  through  Addington, 
Eynesford,  by  miles  and  miles  of  hop-gardens.  I  daresay  I  did 
not  look  at  the  prospect  much,  beautiful  though  it  might  be,  my 
young  eyes  being  for  ever  on  the  look-out  for  Saint  Paul's  and 
London. 

For  a  great  part  of  the  way  Doctor  Barnard  and  his  companion 
had  a  fine  controversy  about  their  respective  religions,  for  which  each 
was  alike  zealous.  Nay  :  it  may  be  the  Rector  invited  Mr.  Weston 
to  take  a  place  in  his  post-chaise  in  order  to  have  this  battle,  for 
he  never  tired  of  arguing  the  question  between  the  two  Churches. 
Towards  the  close  of  the  day  Master  Denis  Duval  fell  asleep  on 
Doctor  Barnard's  shoulder,  and  the  good-natured  clergyman  did  not 
disturb  him. 

I  woke  up  with  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  carriage.  The  even- 
ing was  falling.  We  were  upon  a  lonely  common,  and  a  man  on 
horseback  was  at  the  window  of  the  ])ost-chaise. 

"  Give  us  out  that  there  box  !  and  your  money  !  "  I  heard  him 
say  in  a  very  gruff  voice.  0  heavens  !  we  were  actually  stujiijcd  by 
a  highwayman  !     It  was  delightful. 

Mr.  Weston  jumped  at  his  pistols  very  quick.  "  Here's  our 
money,  you  scoundrel  !  "  says  he,  and  fired  point-blank  at  the  rogue's 


506  DENIS    DUVAL 

head.  Confusion  !  The  pistol  missed  fire.  He  aimed  the  second, 
and  again  no  report  followed  ! 

"  Some  scoundrel  has  been  tampering  with  these,"  says  Mr. 
Weston,  aghast. 

"Come,"  says  Captain  Macheath,  "come,  your " 

But  the  next  word  the  fellow  spoke  was  a  frightful  oath ;  for  I 
took  out  my  little  pistol,  which  was  full  of  shot,  and  fired  it  into  his 
face.  The  man  reeled,  and  I  thought  would  have  fallen  out  of  his 
saddle.  The  postillion,  frightened  no  doubt,  clapped  spurs  to  his 
horse,  and  began  to  gallop.  "Shan't  we  stop  and  take  that  rascal, 
sir  ? "  said  I  to  the  Doctor.  On  which  Mr.  Weston  gave  a  peevish 
kind  of  push  at  me,  and  said,  "  No,  no.  It  is  getting  quite  dark. 
Let  us  push  on."  And,  indeed,  the  highwayman's  horse  had  taken 
fright,  and  we  could  see  him  galloping  away  across  the  common. 

I  was  so  elated  to  think  that  I,  a  little  boy,  had  shot  a  live  high- 
wayman, that  I  daresay  I  bragged  outrageously  of  my  action.  We 
set  down  Mr.  Weston  at  his  inn  in  the  Borough,  and  crossed  London 
Bridge,  and  there  I  was  in  London  at  last.  Yes,  and  that  was  the 
Monument,  and  then  we  came  to  tlie  Exchange,  and  yonder,  yonder 
was  Saint  Paul's.  We  went  up  Holborn,  and  so  to  Ormond  Street, 
where  my  patron  lived  in  a  noble  mansion ;  and  where  his  wife,  my 
Lady  Denis,  received  me  with  a  great  deal  of  kindness.  You  may 
be  sure  the  battle  with  the  higliwayman  was  fouglit  over  again,  and 
I  got  due  credit  from  myself  and  others  for  my  gallantry. 

Sir  Peter  and  his  lady  introduced  me  to  a  number  of  their 
acquaintances  as  the  little  boy  who  shot  the  highwayman.  They 
received  a  great  deal  of  company,  and  I  Avas  freqiiently  had  in  to 
their  dessert.  I  suppose  I  must  own  that  my  home  was  below  in 
the  housekeeper's  room  with  Mrs.  Jellicoe ;  but  my  Lady  took  such 
a  f  uicy  to  me  that  she  continually  had  me  upstairs,  took  me  out 
driving  in  her  chariot,  or  ordered  one  of  the  footmen  to  take  me  to 
the  sights  of  the  town,  and  sent  me  in  his  charge  to  the  play.  It 
was  the  last  year  Garrick  performed ;  and  I  saw  him  in  the  play  of 
"  Macbeth,"  in  a  gold-laced  blue  coat  with  scarlet  plush  waistcoat 
and  breeches.  Ormond  Street,  Bloornsbury,  was  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town  then,  with  open  country  behind,  stretching  as  far  as 
Hanipstead.  Bedford  House,  north  of  Bloomsbury  Square,  with 
sjilendid  gardens,  was  close  by,  and  Montague  House,  where  I  saw 
stuffed  camelopards,  and  all  sorts  of  queer  things  from  foreign 
countries.  Then  there  were  the  Tower,  and  the  Waxwork,  and 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  Vauxhall.  What  a  glorious  week  of 
pleasure  it  was  !  At  the  week's  end  the  kind  Doctor  went  home 
again,  and  all  those  dear  kind  people  gave  me  presents,  and  cakes, 
and  money,  and  spoilt  the  little  boy  who  shot  the  highwayman. 


I    HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOAV    BELLS      507 

The  affair  was  actually  put  into  the  newspaj)ers,  and  who  sliould 
come  to  hear  of  it  but  my  gracious  SoA'ereign  himself.  One  day 
Sir  Peter  Denis  took  me  to  see  Kew  Gardens  and  the  new  Chinese 
pagoda  lier  Majesty  had  put  up.  Wliilst  walking  liei-e,  and  survey- 
ing this  pretty  place,  I  had  tlie  good  fortune  to  see  his  M-j-sty, 
walking  with  our  most  gracious  Qu — n,  the  Pr-nce  of  W — s,  the 
Bishop  of  Osnabtirff,  my  namesake,  and,  I  think,  two,  or  it  may 
be  three,  of  the  Princesses.  Her  M-j-sty  knew  Sir  Peter  from 
having  sailed  with  him,  saluted  him  very  graciously,  and  engaged 
him  in  conversation.  And  the  Best  of  Monarchs,  looking  towards 
his  humblest  subject  and  servant,  sai<l,  "What,  what?  Little  boy 
shot  the  highwayman  !  Shot  him  in  the  fiice  !  Shot  liim  in  the 
face  !  "  On  which  the  youthful  Pr-nces  graciously  looked  towards 
me,  and  the  King  asking  Sir  Peter  wliat  my  profession  was  to  be, 
the  Admiral  said  I  hoped  to  be  a  sailor  and  serve  his  Majesty. 

I  promise  you  I  was  a  mighty  grand  jiersonage  when  I  went 
home ;  and  both  at  Rye  and  Winchelsea  scores  of  jieople  asked  me 
what  the  King  said.  On  our  return,  we  heard  of  an  accident  wliidi 
had  happened  to  Mr.  Joseph  Weston,  which  ended  most  unhai)i)ily 
for  that  gentleman.  On  the  very  day  when  we  set  out  for  London 
lie  went  out  shooting — a  sport  of  which  he  was  very  fond ;  but  in 
climbing  a  hedge,  and  dragging  his  gun  incautiously  after  him,  the 
lock  caught  in  a  twig,  and  the  piece  discharged  itself  into  the  poor 
gentleman's  face,  lodging  a  number  of  shot  into  his  left  cheek,  and 
into  his  eye,  of  wliich  he  lost  the  sight,  after  suffering  much  pain 
and  torture. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  A  charge  of  small  shot  in  his  face  !  What 
an  extraordinary  thing ! "  cries  Doctor  Barnard,  who  came  down 
to  see  Mother  and  Grandfather  the  day  after  our  return  liome. 
Mrs.  Barnard  had  told  him  of  the  accident  at  supper  on  the  niglit 
previous.  Had  he  been  shot  or  shot  some  one  himself,  the  Doctor 
could  scarce  have  looked  more  scared.  He  put  me  in  nu'nd  of  Mr. 
Garrick,  whom  I  had  just  seen  at  the  j)layhouse,  London,  when 
he  comes  out  after  murdering  the  King. 

"  You  look,  Docteur,  as  if  you  done  it  yourself,"  says  Monsieur 
de  la  Motte,  laughing,  and  in  his  English  jargon.  "  Two  time, 
thi'ee  time,  I  say,  Weston,  you  shoot  yourself,  you  carry  you  gun 
that  way,  and  he  say  he  not  born  to  be  shot,  and  he  SAvear ! " 

"  But,  my  good  Chevalier,  Doctor  Blades  picked  some  bits 
of  crape  out  of  his  eye,  and  thirteen  or  fourteen  shot.  What  is  the 
size  of  your  shot,  Dennv,  witli  wliich  vou  fired  at  the  highway- 
man]" 

"Quid  autem  vides  festucaui  in  oculo  fratris  tui.  Doctor?"  says 
the  Chevalier;  "that  is  good  doctrine — Protestant  or  Popish,  eh?" 


508  DENIS    DUVAL 

On  wliich  the  Doctor  held  down  his  head,  and  said,  *'  Chevalier,  I 
am  corrected  ;  I  was  wrong — very  wrong." 

"And  as  for  crai^e,"  La  Motte  resumed,  "Weston  is  in  mourn- 
ing. He  go  to  funeral  at  Canterbury  four  days  ago.  Yes,  he  tell 
rae  so.  He  and  my  friend  Liitterloh  go."  This  Mr.  Liitterloh  was 
a  German  living  near  Canterbury,  with  whom  Monsieur  de  la  Motte 
had  dealings.  He  had  dealings  with  all  sorts  of  people ;  and  very 
({ueer  dealings,  too,  as  I  began  to  understand  now  tliat  I  was  a  stout 
boy  approaching  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  standing  pretty  tall  in 
my  shoes. 

De  la  Motte  laughed  then  at  the  Doctor's  suspicions.  "  Parsons 
and  women  all  the  same,  save  your  respect,  ma  bonne  Madame 
Duval ;  all  tell  tales ;  all  believe  evil  of  their  neighbours.  I  tell 
you  I  see  Weston  shoot  twenty,  thirty  time.  Always  drag  his  gun 
through  hedge." 

"But  the  crape 1" 

"  Bah  !  Always  in  mourning,  Weston  is  !  For  shame  of  your 
cancans,  little  Denis !  Never  think  such  thing  again.  Don't 
make  Weston  your  enemy.  If  a  man  say  that  of  me,  I  would 
shoot  him  myself,  parhleu  !  " 

"  But  if  he  has  done  it  ? " 

"  Parhleu !  I  would  shoot  him  so  much  ze  mor ! "  says  the 
Chevalier,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot.  And  the  first  time  he  saw 
me  alone  he  reverted  to  the  subject.  "  Listen,  Denisot ! "  says 
he  :  "  thou  becomest  a  great  boy.  Take  my  counsel,  and  hold  thy 
tongue.  This  suspicion  against  Mr.  Joseph  is  a  monstrous  crime, 
as  well  as  a  folly.  A  man  say  that  of  me — right  or  wrong — I  burn 
him  the  brain.  Once  I  come  home,  and  you  run  against  me,  and 
I  cry  out,  and  swear  and  pest.  I  was  wounded  myself,  I  deny 
it  not." 

"  And  I  said  nothing,  sir,"  I  interposed. 

"  No,  I  do  thee  justice ;  thou  didst  say  nothing.  You  know 
the  metier  we  make  sometimes  ?  That  night  in  the  boat "  ("  zat 
night  in  ze  boat,"  he  used  to  say),  "when  the  revenue  cutter  fire, 
and  your  poor  caraarade  howl — ah,  how  he  howl — you  don't  suppose 
we  were  there  to  look  for  lobstare-pot,  eh  1  Tu  n'as  pas  bronchi, 
toi.  You  did  not  crane  ;  you  show  yourself  a  man  of  heart.  And 
now,  petit,  apprends  k  te  taire  ! "  And  he  gave  me  a  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  a  couple  of  guineas  in  it  too,  and  went  off  to  liis  stables 
on  his  business.  He  liad  two  or  three  horses  now,  and  was  always 
on  the  trot ;  he  was  very  liberal  with  his  money,  and  used  to  have 
handsome  entertainments  in  liis  upstairs  room,  and  never  quarrelled 
about  the  bills  which  Motlier  sent  in.  "  Hold  thy  tongue,  Denisot," 
said  he.     "  Never  tell  who  comes  in  or  who  goes  out.     And  mind 


I    HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS      509 

thee,  child,  if  tliy  tungiie  wags,  little  birds  come  ami  whisijer  me, 
and  say,  '  He  tell'  " 

I  tried  to  obey  his  advice,  and  to  rein  in  that  truant  tongue 
of  mine.  When  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Barnard  themselves  asked  me 
questions  I  was  mum,  and  perhaps  rather  disajipointed  the  good 
lady  and  the  Rector  too  by  my  reticence.  For  instance,  Mrs. 
Barnard  would  say,  "  That  was  a  nice  goose  I  Kaw  going  from 
market  to  your  house,  Denny." 

"  Goose  is  very  nice,  ma'am,"  says  I. 

"The  Chevalier  often  has  dinners?" 

"  Dines  every  day,  regular,  ma'am." 

"  Sees  the  Westons  a  great  deal  1 " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  I  say,  with  an  indescribable  heart-pang.  And 
the  cause  of  that  pang  I  may  as  well  tell.  You  see,  though  I  was 
only  thirteen  years  old,  and  Agnes  but  eight,  I  loved  that  little 
maid  with  all  my  soul  and  strength.  Boy  or  man  I  never  loved 
any  other  woman.  I  write  these  very  words  by  my  study  fire  in 
Fareport  with  madam  opposite  dozing  over  her  novel  till  the 
neighbours  shall  come  in  to  tea  and  their  rubber.  When  my  ink 
is  run  out,  and  my  little  tale  is  written,  and  yonder  church  that 
is  ringing  to  seven  o'clock  jirayer  shall  toll  for  a  certain  D.  D.,  you 
will  please,  good  neighbours,  to  remember  that  I  never  loved  any 
but  yonder  lady,  and  keep  a  place  by  Darby  for  Joan,  when  her 
turn  shall  arrive. 

Now  in  the  last  year  or  two  since  she  had  been  adopted  at  the 
Priory,  Agnes  came  less  and  less  often  to  see  us.  She  did  not  go 
to  church  with  us,  being  a  Catholic.  She  learned  from  the  good 
fathers  her  tutors.  She  learned  music  and  French  and  dancing 
to  perfection.  All  the  country  could  not  show  a  finer  little  lady. 
When  she  came  to  our  shop,  it  was  indeed  a  little  countess  honour- 
ing us  with  a  visit.  Mother  was  gentle  before  her — Grandfather 
obsequious — I,  of  course,  her  most  humble  little  servant.  Wednesday 
(a  half-holiday),  and  half  Saturday,  and  all  Sunday  I  might  come 
home  from  school,  and  how  I  used  to  trudge,  and  how  I  longed  to 
see  that  little  maiden,  any  gentleman  may  imagine  who  has  lost  his 
heart  to  an  Agnes  of  his  own. 

The  first  day  of  my  arrival  at  h(jme,  after  the  memorable  London 
journey,  I  presented  myself  at  the  Priory,  with  my  pocket  full  of 
presents  for  Agnes.  The  footman  let  me  into  the  hall  civilly  enough  : 
but  the  young  lady  was  out  with  Mrs.  Weston  in  the  post-chaise. 
I  might  leave  my  message. 

I  wanted  to  give  my  message.  Somehow  in  that  fortnight's 
absence  from  home,  I  had  so  got  to  long  after  Agnes  that  I  never 
had  my  little  sweetheart  quite  out  of  my  mind.     It  may  liave  beeu 


510  DENIS    DUVAL 

a  silly  thing,  but  I  got  a  little  pocket-book  and  wrote  in  French  a 
joiuual  of  all  I  saw  in  London.  I  daresay  there  were  some  petty 
faults  in  grammar.  I  remember  a  fine  paragraph  about  my  meeting 
the  Royal  personages  at  Kew,  and  all  their  names  written  down  in 
order ;  and  tliis  little  pocket-book  I  must  needs  send  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Saverne. 

The  next  day  I  called  again.  Still  Mademoiselle  de  Saverne 
was  not  to  be  seen  :  but  in  the  evening  a  servant  brought  a  little 
note  from  her,  in  which  she  thanked  her  dear  brother  for  his 
Ijeautiful  book.  That  was  some  consolation.  She  liked  the  pocket- 
book,  anyhow.  I  wonder,  can  you  young  people  guess  what  I  did 
to  it  before  I  sent  it  away "?  Yes,  I  did.  "  One,  tree,  feefty  time," 
as  the  Chevalier  would  say.  The  next  morning,  quite  early,  I  had 
to  go  back  to  school,  having  promised  the  Doctor  to  work  hard 
after  my  holiday ;  and  work  I  did  with  a  will,  at  my  French  and 
my  English,  and  my  Navigation.  I  thought  Saturday  would  never 
come  :  but  it  did  at  last,  and  I  trotted  as  quick  as  legs  would  carry 
me  from  school  to  Winchelsea.  My  legs  were  growing  apace  now ; 
and  especially  as  they  took  me  homewards,  few  could  outrun  them. 

All  good  women  are  match-makers  at  heart.  My  dear  Mrs. 
Barnard  saw  quite  soon  what  my  condition  of  mind  was,  and  was 
touched  by  my  boyish  fervour.  I  called  once,  twice,  thrice  at  the 
Priory,  and  never  could  get  a  sight  of  Miss  Agnes.  The  servant 
used  to  shrug  his  shoulders  and  laugli  at  me  in  an  insolent  way, 
and  the  last  time  said — "  You  need  not  call  any  more.  We  don't 
want  our  hair  cut  here,  nor  no  pomatum,  nor  no  soap,  do  you  under- 
stand thaf?"  and  he  slammed  the  door  in  my  face.  I  was  stunned 
by  this  insolence,  and  beside  myself  with  rage  and  mortification. 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Barnard,  and  told  her  what  had  happened  to  me. 
I  burst  into  tears  of  passion  and  grief  as  I  flung  myself  on  a  sofa 
by  the  good  lady.  I  told  her  how  I  had  rescued  little  Agnes,  how 
I  loved  the  little  thing  better  than  all  the  world.  I  spoke  my 
heart  out,  and  eased  it  somewhat,  for  the  good  lady  wiped  her  eyes 
more  than  once,  and  finished  by  giving  me  a  kiss.  She  did  more ; 
slie  invited  me  to  tea  with  her  on  the  next  Wednesday  when  I 
came  home  from  school,  and  who  should  be  there  but  little  Agnes. 
She  blushed  very  much.  Then  she  came  towards  me.  Then  she 
held  up  her  little  cheek  to  be  kissed,  and  tlien  she  cried — oli,  how 
she  did  cry !  There  were  three  people  whimpering  in  that  room. 
(How  well  I  recollect  it  opening  into  the  garden,  and  the  little  old 
blue  dragon  teacups  and  silver  pot !)  Tliere  were  three  persons,  I 
say,  crying :  a  lady  of  fifty,  a  boy  of  thirteen,  and  a  little  girl  of 
eiglit  years  of  age.  Can  you  guess  what  happened  next  1  Of  course 
the  lady  of  fifty  remembered  that  she  had  forgotten  her  spectacles, 


I    HEAR    THE    SOUND    OF    BOW    BELLS      511 

and  went  upstairs  to  fetch  tlieui ;  and  then  the  little  maiden  began 
to  open  her  heart  to  me,  and  told  her  dear  Denny  how  she  had 
been  longing  to  see  him,  and  how  they  were  very  angiy  with  iiim 
at  the  Priory  ;  so  angry  that  his  name  was  never  to  be  spoken. 
"  The  Chevalier  said  tliat,  and  so  did  the  gentlemen — es])ecially 
Mr.  Joseph,  who  had  been  dreadful  since  his  accident,  and  one  day 
(says  my  dear)  when  you  called,  he  was  behind  the  door  with  a 
great  horsewhip,  and  said  he  would  let  you  in,  and  flog  your  soul 
out  of  your  body,  only  Mrs.  Weston  cried,  and  Mr.  George  said, 
'  Don't  be  a  fool,  Joe  ! '  But  something  you  have  done  to  Mr. 
Joseph,  dear  Denny,  and  when  your  name  is  mentioned,  he  rages 
and  swears  so  that  it  is  dreadful  to  hear  him.  What  can  make  the 
gentleman  so  angry  with  you  1 " 

"  So  he  actually  was  waiting  with  a  horsewhip,  was  he  1  In 
that  case  I  know  what  I  would  do.  I  would  never  go  about  without 
my  pistol.  I  have  liit  one  fellow,"  said  I,  "and  if  any  other  man 
threatens  me  I  will  defend  myself." 

My  dear  Agnes  said  that  they  were  very  kind  to  her  at  the 
Priory,  although  she  could  not  bear  Mr.  Joseph — that  they  gave 
her  good  masters,  that  she  was  to  go  to  a  good  school  ke})t  by  a 
Catholic  lady  at  Arundel.  And  oh,  how^  she  wished  her  Denny 
would  turn  Catholic,  and  she  prayed  for  him  always,  always  !  And 
for  tliat  matter  I  know  some  one  who  never  night  or  morning  on  his 
knees  has  forgotten  that  little  maiden.  The  father  used  to  come 
and  give  her  lessons  three  or  four  times  in  the  week,  and  she  used 
to  learn  her  lessons  by  heart,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  great 
green  walk  in  the  kitchen-garden  every  morning  at  eleven  o'clock. 
I  knew  the  kitchen-garden  !  the  w^all  was  in  North  Lane,  one  of 
the  old  walls  of  the  convent :  at  the  end  of  the  green  walk  there 
was  a  pear  tree.  And  that  was  where  she  always  went  to  learn  her 
lessons. 

And  here,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Barnard  returned  to  the  room,  having 
found  her  spectacles.  And  as  I  take  mine  off  my  nose  and  sluit 
my  eyes,  that  well-remembered  scene  of  boyhood  passes  before  them 
■ — that  garden  basking  in  the  autumn  evening — that  little  maiden 
with  peachy  cheeks,  and  glistening  curls,  that  dear  and  kind 
old  lady,  who  says,  "  'Tis  time  now,  children,  you  should  go 
home." 

I  had  to  go  to  school  that  night ;  but  before  I  went  I  ran  up 
North  Lane  and  saw  the  old  wall  and  the  ])ear  tree  behind  it.  And 
do  you  know  I  thought  I  would  try  and  get  up  the  wall,  and  easy 
enough  it  was  to  find  a  footing  between  those  crumbling  old  stones ; 
and  wdien  on  the  top  I  could  look  down  from  the  branches  of  the 
tree  into  the  garden  below,  and  see  the  house  at  the  farther  einl. 


512  DENIS    DUVAL 

So  that  was  the  broad  Avalk  wliere  Agnes  learned  her  lessons  1 
Master  Denis  Duval  pretty  soon  had  that  lesson  by  heart. 

Yes :  but  one  day  in  the  Christmas  liolidays,  when  there  was  a 
bitter  frost,  and  the  stones  and  the  wall  were  so  slippery  that  Mr. 
D.  D.  tore  his  fingers  and  his  small-clothes  in  climbing  to  his  point 
of  observation,  it  happened  that  little  Agnes  was  not  sitting  under 
tlie  tree  learning  her  lessons,  and  none  but  an  idiot  would  have 
supposed  that  she  would  have  come  out  on  such  a  day. 

But  who  should  be  in  the  garden,  pacing  up  and  down  the  walk 
all  wliite  with  hoar-frost,  but  Joseph  Weston  with  his  patch  over 
his  eye.  Unluckily  he  had  one  eye  left  with  which  he  saw  me, 
and  the  next  moment  I  heard  the  report  of  a  tremendous  oath,  and 
then  a  brickbat  came  whizzing  at  my  head,  so  close  that,  had  it 
struck  me,  it  would  have  knocked  out  my  eye,  and  my  brains  too. 

I  was  down  the  wall  in  a  moment :  it  was  slippery  enough  *. 
and  two  or  three  more  brickbats  came  a  mon  adresse,  but  luckilf 
failed  to  hit  their  mark. 


CHAPTER  VI 
/  ESCAPE  FROM  A   GREAT  DANGER 

I  SPOKE  of  the  aftair  of  tlie  brickbats,  at  home,  to  Monsieur 
lie  la  Motte  only,  not  caring  to  tell  Mother,  lest  she  should 
be  inclined  to  resume  her  box-on-the-ear  practice,  for  which  I 
thought  I  was  growing  too  old.  Indeed,  I  had  become  a  great  boy. 
There  were  not  half-a-dozen  out  of  the  sixty  at  Pocock's  who  could 
beat  me  when  I  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  from  these  champions, 
were  they  ever  so  big,  I  never  would  submit  to  a  thrashing,  without 
a  fight  on  my  part,  in  which,  though  I  might  get  the  worst,  I  was 
pretty  sure  to  leave  some  ugly  marks  on  my  adversary's  nose  and 
eyes.  I  remember  one  lad  especially,  Tom  Parrot  by  name,  Avho 
was  three  years  older  than  myself,  and  whom  I  could  no  more  beat 
than  a  frigate  can  beat  a  seventy-four  ;  but  we  engaged  neverthe- 
less, and,  after  we  hatl  had  some  rounds  together,  Tom  put  one  hand 
in  his  pocket,  and,  with  a  queer  face  and  a  great  black  eye  I  had 
given  liim,  says, — "  Well,  Denny,  I  could  do  it — you  know  I  could  : 
but  I'm  so  lazy,  I  don't  care  about  going  on."  And  one  of  the 
bottle-holders  beginning  to  jeer,  Tom  fetches  him  such  a  rap  on  the 
ear,  that  I  promise  you  he  showed  no  inclination  for  laughing  aftei'- 
wards.  By  the  way,  that  knowledge  of  the  noble  art  of  fisticufi's 
which  I  learned  at  school,  I  had  to  practise  at  sea  presently,  in  tlic 
cockpit  of  more  than  one  of  his  Majesty's  ships  of  war. 

In  respect  of  the  slapping  and  caning  at  home,  I  think  Monsieur 
de  la  Motte  remonstrated  with  my  mother,  and  represented  to  her 
that  I  was  now  too  old  for  that  kind  of  treatment.  Indeed,  when 
I  was  fourteen,  I  was  as  tall  as  Grandfather,  and  in  a  tussle  I  am 
sure  I  could  have  tripped  his  old  heels  u])  easily  enough,  and  got 
the  better  of  him  in  five  minutes.  Do  I  speak  of  him  with  undue 
familiarity  ?  I  pretend  no  love  for  him  ;  I  never  could  have  any 
respect.  Some  of  his  practices  which  I  knew  of  made  me  turn  from 
him,  and  his  loud  professions  only  increased  my  distrust.  Monsieur 
mon  fih,  if  ever  you  marry,  and  have  a  son,  I  hope  the  little  chap 
will  have  an  honest  man  for  a  grandfather,  and  that  you  will  be 
able  to  say,  "I  loved  liim,"  wlien  the  daisies  cover  me. 

La  Motte,  then,  caused  "  the  abolition  of  torture  "  in  our  house, 

33 


514  DENIS    DUVAL 

and  I  was  grateful  to  hiin.  I  had  the  queerest  feelings  towards 
that  man.  He  was  a  perfect  fine  gentleman  when  he  so  wished : 
of  his  UKjney  most  liberal,  witty  (in  a  dry  cruel  sort  of  way) — most 
tenderly  attached  to  Agnes.  Eh  hien  !  As  I  looked  at  his  yellow 
handsome  face,  cold  shudders  would  come  over  me,  though  at  this 
time  I  did  not  know  that  Agnes's  father  liatl  fallen  by  his  fatal 
hand. 

When  I  informed  him  of  Mr.  Joe  Weston's  salute  of  brickbats, 
h(!  looked  very  grave.  And  I  told  him  then,  too,  a  thing  which 
had  struck  me  most  forcibly — viz.,  that  the  shout  which  Weston 
gave,  and  the  oath  which  he  uttered  when  he  saw  me  on  the  wall, 
were  precisely  like  the  oath  and  execration  uttered  by  the  man 
with  the  craped  face,  at  whom  I  fired  from  the  postchaise. 

"  Bah,  hetise  !  "  says  La  Motte.  "  What  didst  thou  on  the 
wain     One  does  not  steal  pears  at  thy  age." 

I  daresay  I  turned  red.  "  I  heard  somebody's  voice,"  I  said. 
"  Li  fact,  I  heard  Agnes  singing  in  the  gar-den,  and — and  I  got  on 
the  wall  to  see  her." 

"What,  you^you,  a  little  barber's  boy,  climb  a  wall  to  speak 
to  Mademoiselle  Agnes  de  Saverne,  of  one  of  the  most  noble  houses 
of  Lorraine?"  La  Motte  yelled,  with  a  savage  laugh.  '^ Parbleu  ! 
Monsieur  Weston  has  well  done  !  " 

"  Sir  !  "  said  I,  in  a  towering  rage,  "  barber  as  I  am,  my  fathers 
were  honourable  Protestant  clergymen  in  Alsace,  and  we  are  as 
good  as  highwaymen  at  any  rate  !  Barber,  indeed  ! "  I  say  again. 
"  And  now  I  am  ready  to  swear  that  the  man  who  swore  at  me, 
and  the  man  I  shot  on  the  road,  are  one  and  the  same ;  and  I'll  go 
to  Doctor  Barnard's,  and  swear  it  before  him  !  " 

The  Chevalier  looked  aghast,  and  tlireatening  for  awhile.  "  Tu 
me  menaces,  je  crois,  petit  manant ! "  says  lie,  grinding  his  teeth. 
"  This  is  too  strong.  Listen,  Denis  Duval !  Hold  thy  tongue,  or 
evil  will  come  to  thee.  Thou  wilt  make  for  thyself  enemies  the 
most  unscrupulous,  and  the  most  terrible — do  you  hear?  I  have 
l)laced  Mademoiselle  Agnes  de  Saverne  with  that  admirable  woman. 
Mistress  Weston,  because  she  can  meet  at  the  Priory  with  society 
more  fitting  her  noble  birth  than  that  which  she  will  find  under 
your  grandfather's  pole — parbleu.  Ah,  you  dare  mount  on  wall  to 
look  for  Mademoiselle  de  Saverne?  Gare  aux  manstraps,  mon 
gar^on !  Vive  Dieu,  if  I  see  thee  on  that  wall  I  will  fire  on  thee, 
moi  le  premier  !  You  pretend  to  Mademoiselle  Agnes.  Ha !  ha  ! 
ha ! "  and  he  grinned  and  looked  like  tliat  f/o?;e«-footed  gentleman 
of  whom  Doctor  Barnard  talked. 

I  felt  tliat  henceforward  there  was  war  between  La  Motte  and 
me.     At  this  time  I  had  suddenly  shot  up  to  be  a  young  man,  and 


I    ESCAPE    FKOM    A    GREAT    DANGER       515 

was  not  the  obedient  prattling  child  of  last  year.  I  told  Grand- 
father tliat  I  would  bear  no  more  punishment,  such  as  the  old  man 
had  been  accustomed  to  bestow  upon  me ;  and  once  when  my 
mother  lifted  her  hand,  I  struck  it  up,  and  gripped  it  so  tight  that  I 
frightened  her.  From  that  very  day  she  never  raised  a  hand  to 
me.  Nay,  I  think  she  was  not  ill  pleased,  and  soon  actually  began 
to  spoil  me.  Nothing  was  too  good  for  me.  I  know  where  the 
silk  came  from  which  made  my  fine  new  waistcoat,  and  the  cambric 
for  my  ruffled  shirts,  but  very  much  doubt  whether  they  ever  paid 
any  duty.  As  I  walked  to  church,  I  daresay  I  cocked  my  hat,  and 
strutted  very  conseciuentially.  When  Tom  Billis,  the  baker's  boy, 
jeered  at  my  fine  clotlies,  "  Tom,"  says  I,  "  I  will  take  my  coat  and 
waistcoat  off  for  half-au-hour  on  Monday,  and  give  thee  a  beating 
if  thou  hast  a  mind ;  but  to-day  let  us  be  at  peace,  and  go  to 
church." 

On  the  matter  of  church  I  am  not  going  to  make  any  boast. 
That  awful  subject  lies  between  a  man  and  his  conscience.  I  liave 
known  men  of  lax  faith  pure  and  just  in  their  lives,  as  I  have  met 
very  loud-professing  Clu'istians  loose  in  their  morality,  and  hard 
and  unjust  in  their  dealings.  There  was  a  little  old  man  at  home — 
Heaven  help  him ! — who  was  of  this  sort,  and  wlio,  when  I  came 
to  know  his  life,  would  put  me  into  such  a  rage  of  revolt  whilst 
preaching  his  daily  and  nightly  sermons,  that  it  is  a  wonder  I 
was  not  enlisted  among  the  scoffers  and  evil-doers  altogether.  I 
have  known  many  a  young  man  fall  away,  and  become  utterly 
reprobate,  because  the  bond  of  discipline  was  tied  too  tightly  u])oii 
him,  and  because  he  has  found  the  preacher  who  was  peri)etua]ly 
prating  over  him  lax  in  his  own  conduct.  I  am  thankful,  then, 
that  I  had  a  better  instructor  than  my  old  ga'andfather  Avith  his 
strap  and  his  cane ;  and  was  brought  (I  hope  and  trust)  to  a  right 
state  of  thinking  by  a  man  whose  brain  was  wise,  as  his  life  was 
excellently  benevolent  and  pure.  This  Avas  my  good  friend  Doctor 
Barnard,  and  to  this  day  I  remember  'the  conversations  I  had  with 
him,  and  am  quite  sure  they  infiuenced  my  future  life.  Had  I 
been  altogether  reckless  and  as  lawless  as  many  people  of  our 
acquaintance  and  neighbourhood,  he  would  have  ceased  to  feel  any 
interest  in  me ;  and  instead  of  wearing  his  Majesty's  ejiaulets 
(which  I  trust  I  have  not  disgraced),  I  might  have  been  swabbing 
a  smuggler's  boat,  or  riding  in  a  night  caravan,  with  kegs  beside 
me  and  pistols  and  cutlasses  to  defend  me,  as  that  unlucky  La 
Motte  owned  for  his  i)art  that  he  had  done.  My  good  mother, 
though  she  gave  up  the  practice  of  snuiggling,  never  could  see  tlic 
harm  in  it ;  but  looked  on  it  as  a  game  where  you  played  your 
stake,  and  lost  or  won  it.     She  ceased  to  play,  not  because  it  was 


516  DENIS    DUVAL 

wrong,  but  it  was  expedient  no  more ;  and  Mr.  Denis,  her  son, 
was  the  cause  of  Iier  giving  up  tliis  old  trade. 

For  me,  I  thankfully  own  that  I  was  taught  to  see  the  matter 
in  a  graver  light,  not  only  by  our  Doctor's  sermons  (two  or  three 
of  which,  on  the  text  of  "  Render  unto  Csesar,"  he  preached,  to  the 
rage  of  a  great  number  of  his  congregation),  but  by  many  talks 
which  he  had  with  me ;  when  he  showed  me  that  I  was  in  the 
wrong  to  break  the  laws  of  my  country  to  which  I  owed  obedience, 
as  did  every  good  citizen.  He  knew  (though  he  never  told  me, 
and  his  reticence  in  this  matter  was  surely  very  kind)  that  my 
poor  father  had  died  of  wounds  received  in  a  smuggling  encounter ; 
but  he  showed  me  how  such  a  life  must  be  loose,  lawless,  secret, 
and  wicked ;  must  bring  a  man  amongst  desperate  companions, 
and  compel  him  to  resist  Caesar's  lawful  authority  by  rebellion,  and 
possibly  murder.  "  To  thy  mother  I  have  used  other  arguments, 
Denny,  my  boy,"  he  said,  very  kindly.  "  I  and  the  Admiral  want 
to  make  a  gentleman  of  thee.  Thy  old  grandfather  is  rich  enough 
to  help  us  if  he  chooses.  I  won't  stop  to  inquire  too  strictly  where 
all  his  money  came  from  ;  *  but  'tis  clear  we  cannot  make  a  gentle- 
man of  a  smuggler's  boy,  who  may  be  transported  any  day,  or,  in 

case  of  armed  resistance,  may  be "     And  here  my  good  Doctor 

puts  his  hand  to  his  ear,  and  indicates  the  punishment  for  piracy 
which  was  very  common  in  my  young  time.  "My  Denny  does 
not  want  to  ride  with  a  crape  over  his  face,  and  fire  pistols  at 
revenue  officers  !  No  !  I  pray  you  will  ever  show  an  honest  counte- 
nance to  the  world.  You  will  render  unto  Ctesar  the  things  which 
are  Caesar's,  and — the  rest,  my  cliild,  you  know." 

Now,  I  remarked  about  this  man,  that  when  he  approached 
a  certain  subject,  an  involuntary  awe  came  over  him,  and  he 
hushed  as  it  were  at  the  very  idea  of  that  sacred  theme.  It  was 
very  different  with  poor  Grandfather  prating  his  sermons  (and 
with  some  other  jiastors  I  have   heard),  who  used  this  Name  as 

familiarly  as  any  other,   and but  who  am   I   to  judge?   and, 

my  poor  old  Graudfathei-,  is  there  any  need  at  this  distance  of 
time  that  I  should  be  picking  out  the  trahem  in  oculo  tuo  ?  .  .  . 
Howbeit,  on  that  night,  as  I  was  walking  home  after  drinking  tea 
with  my  dear  Doctor,  I  made  a  vow  that  I  would  strive  henceforth 
to  lead  an  honest  life ;  that  my  tongue  should  speak  the  truth, 
and  my  hand  should  be  sullied  by  no  secret  crime.  And  as  I 
spoke  I  saw  my  dearest  little  maiden's  light  glimmering  in  her 
cliamber,  and  the  stars  shining  overhead,  and  felt — who  could  feel 
more  bold  and  happy  than  I  ? 

That  walk  sclioolwards  by  West  Street  certainly  was  a  detour. 

*  Eheu  !  where  a  part  of  it  icent  to,  I  shall  have  to  say  presently. — D.  D. 


I    ESCAPE    FROM  A    GREAT    DANGER        517 

I  might  have  gone  a  straighter  road,  but  then  I  should  not  have 
seen  a  certain  window :  a  little  twinkling  window  in  a  gable  of  the 
Priory  House,  where  the  light  used  to  be  popped  out  at  nine  o'clock. 
T'other  day,  when  we  took  over  the  King  of  France  to  Calais  (his 
Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Chirence  being  in  command),  I  must 
needs  hire  a  postchaise  from  Dover,  to  look  at  that  old  window  in 
the  Priory  House  at  Winchelsea.  I  went  through  the  old  tears, 
despairs,  tragedies.  I  sighed  as  sentimentally,  after  forty  years,  as 
though  the  infandi  dolores  were  fresh  upon  me,  as  though  I  were 
the  schoolboy  trudging  back  to  his  task,  and  taking  a  last  look  at 
his  dearest  joy.  I  used  as  a  boy  to  try  and  pass  that  window  at 
nine,  and  I  know  a  prayer  was  said  for  the  inhabitant  of  yonder 
chamber.  She  knew  my  holidays,  and  my  hours  of  going  to  school 
and  returning  thence.  If  my  little  maid  hung  certain  signals  in 
that  window  (such  as  a  flower,  for  example,  to  indicate  all  was  well, 
a  cross-curtain,  and  so  forth),  I  hope  she  practised  no  very  unjustifi- 
able stratagems.  We  agreed  to  consider  that  she  was  a  prisoner  in 
the  hands  of  the  enemy ;  and  we  had  few  means  of  communication 
save  these  simple  artifices,  which  are  allowed  to  be  fair  in  love  and 
war.  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  continued  to  live  at  our  house,  when 
his  frequent  affliirs  did  not  call  him  away  thence ;  but,  as  I  said, 
few  words  passed  between  us  after  that  angry  altercation  already 
described,  and  he  and  I  were  never  friends  again. 

He  warned  me  that  I  had  anotlier  enemy,  and  facts  strangely 
confirmed  the  Chevalier's  warning.  One  Sunday  night,  as  I  was 
going  to  school,  a  repetition  of  the  brickbat  assault  was  made  upon 
me,  and  this  time  the  smart  cocked  hat  which  Motlier  had  given  me 
came  in  for  such  a  battering  as  eftectually  spoiled  its  modish  shape. 
I  told  Doctor  Barnard  of  this  second  attempt,  and  the  good  Doctor 
was  not  a  little  puzzled.  He  began  to  think  that  he  was  not  so 
very  wrong  in  espying  a  beam  in  Joseph  Weston's  eye.  We  agreed 
to  keep  the  matter  quiet,  however;  and  a  fortnight  after,  on 
another  Sunday  evening,  as  I  was  going  on  my  accustomed  route 
to  school,  whom  should  I  meet  but  the  Doctor  and  Mr.  Weston 
walking  together !  A  little  way  beyond  the  town  gate  there  is  a 
low  wall  round  a  field ;  and  Doctor  Barnard,  going  by  this  field  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  hefore  my  usual  time  for  passimi^  found  Mr. 
Joseph  Weston  walking  there  behind  the  stone  enclosure  ! 

"  Good  night,  Denny,"  says  the  Doctor,  when  he  and  his  com- 
panion met  me;  but  surly  Mr.  Weston  said  nothing.  "Have  you 
had  any  more  brickbats  at  your  head,  my  boy"?"  tlie  Rector 
continued. 

I  said  I  was  not  afraid.  I  had  got  a  good  pistol,  and  a  bullet 
in  it  this  time. 


518  DENIS    DUVAL 

"  He  sliot  that  scoundrel  on  the  same  day  you  were  shot,  Mr. 
Weston,"  says  the  Doctor. 

"  Did  he  ] "  growls  the  other. 

"And  your  gun  was  loaded  with  the  same-sized  shot  which 
Denis  used  to  pepper  his  rascal,"  continues  the  Doctor.  "  I  wonder 
if  any  of  the  crape  went  into  the  rascal's  wound  1 " 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  with  an  oath,  "  what  do  you  mean  for 
to  hint  ? " 

"  The  very  oath  the  fellow  used  whom  Denny  hit  when  your 
brother  and  I  travelled  together.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  use  the 
language  of  such  scoundrels,  Mr.  Weston." 

"  If  you  dare  to  suspect  me  of  anything  unbecoming  a  gentle- 
man, I'll  have  the  law  of  you,  Mr.  Parson,  that  I  will ! "  roars  the 
other. 

"  Denis,  mon  gar9on,  tire  ton  pistolet  de  suite,  et  vise-moi  bien 
cet  homme-la,"  says  the  Doctor  ;  and  gripping  hold  of  Weston's  arm, 
what  does  Doctor  Barnard  do  but  plunge  his  hand  into  Weston's 
pocket,  and  draw  thence  another  pistol !  He  said  afterwards  he 
saw  the  brass  butt  sticking  out  of  Weston's  coat,  as  the  two  were 
walking  together. 

"  What !  "  shrieks  Mr.  Weston  ;  "  is  that  young  miscreant  to  go 
about  armed,  and  tell  everybody  he  will  murder  me;  and  ain't  I 
for  to  defend  myself?     I  walk  in  fear  of  my  life  for  him  !  " 

"  You  seem  to  me  to  be  in  the  habit  of  travelling  with  pistols, 
Mr.  Weston,  and  you  know  when  people  pass  sometimes  with 
money  in  their  postchaises." 

"  You  scoundrel,  you — you,  boy  !  I  call  you  to  witness  the 
words  this  man  have  spoken.  He  have  insulted  me,  and  libelled 
me,  and  I'll  have  the  lor  on  him  as  sure  as  I  am  born ! "  shouts 
the  angry  man. 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Joseph  Weston,"  replied  the  other  fiercely. 
"And  I  will  ask  Mr.  Blades,  the  surgeon,  to  bring  the  shot  which 
he  took  from  your  eye,  and  the  scraps  of  crape  adhering  to  your 
face,  and  we  will  go  to  lor  as  soon  as  you  like  ! " 

Again  I  thought  with  a  dreadful  pang  how  Agnes  was  staying 
in  that  man's  house,  and  how  this  quarrel  would  more  than  ever 
divide  her  from  me ;  for  now  she  woul<l  not  be  allowed  to  visit  the 
Rectory — the  dear  neutral  ground  where  I  sometimes  hoped  to 
see  her. 

Weston  never  went  to  law  with  tlie  Doctor,  as  he  threatened. 
Some  awkward  questions  would  have  been  raised,  which  he  would 
have  found  a  difficulty  in  answering :  and  though  he  averred  that 
his  accident  took  place  on  the  day  before  our  encounter  with  the 
beau  masque  on  Dartford  Common,  a  little  witness  on   our  side 


I    ESCAPE    FROM    A    GREAT    DANGER        519 

was  ready  to  aver  that  Mr.  Joe  Weston  left  liis  house  at  the  Priory 
before  sunrise  on  the  day  wlien  we  took  our  journey  to  London, 
and  tliat  he  returned  the  next  morning  with  his  eye  bound  up, 
when  he  sent  for  Mr.  Blades,  the  surgeon  of  our  town.  Being 
awake,  and  looking  from  her  window,  my  witness  saw  Weston 
mount  his  horse  by  the  stable-lantern  behjw,  and  heard  him  swear 
at  the  groom  as  he  rode  out  at  the  gate.  Curses  used  to  drop 
naturally  out  of  tliis  nice  gentleman's  lips  ;  and  it  is  certain  in  his 
case  that  bail  Avords  and  bad  actions  went  together. 

The  Westons  wei"e  frequently  absent  from  home,  as  was  the 
Chevalier  our  lodger.  My  dear  little  Agnes  was  allowed  to  come 
and  see  us  at  these  times ;  or  slipi)ed  out  by  the  garden-door,  and 
ran  to  see  her  nurse  Duval,  as  she  always  called  my  mother.  I 
did  not  understand  for  a  wliile  tliat  there  was  any  prohibition  on 
tlie  Westons'  part  to  Agnes  visiting  us,  or  know  that  there  was 
such  mighty  wrath  harboured  against  me  in  that  house. 

I  was  glad,  for  the  sake  of  a  peaceable  life  at  home,  as  for 
honesty's  sake  too,  that  my  mother  did  not  oppose  my  determina- 
tion to  take  no  share  in  that  snuiggling  business  in  which  our  house 
still  engaged.  Any  one  who  ojiposed  Motlier  in  her  own  house  had, 
I  promise  you,  no  easy  time  :  but  she  saw  tliat  if  she  wished  to 
make  a  gentleman  of  her  boy,  he  must  be  no  smuggler's  appren- 
tice ;  and  when  Monsieur  le  Chevalier,  being  appealed  to,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said  he  washed  his  hands  of  me  :  "  Eh  hien, 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte  ! "  says  she,  "we  shall  see  if  we  can't  pass 
ourselves  of  you  and  your  patronage.  I  imagine  that  people  are 
not  always  the  better  for  it."  "  No,"  replied  he,  with  a  groan, 
and  one  of  his  gloomy  looks,  "  my  friendship  may  do  people  harm, 
but  my  enmity  is  worse — entendez-vmis  ?  "  "  Bah,  bah  !  "  says  the 
stout  old  lady.  "  Denisot  has  a  good  courage  of  his  own.  What 
do  you  say  to  me  about  enmity  to  a  harmless  boy,  Monsieur  le 
Chev^alier  1 " 

I  have  told  how,  on  the  night  of  the  funeral  of  Madame  de 
Saverne,  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  sent  me  out  to  assemble  his 
Mackerel  men.  Among  these  was  tlie  father  of  one  of  my  town 
playfellows,  by  name  Hookham,  a  seafaring  man,  who  had  met 
with  an  accident  at  his  business — strained  his  back — and  was  in- 
capable of  work  for  a  time.  Hookham  was  an  improvident  man  ; 
the  rent  got  into  arrears.  My  grandfather  was  his  landlord,  and 
I  fear  me,  not  the  most  humane  creditor  in  the  world.  Now  when 
I  returned  home  after  my  famous  visit  to  London,  my  patron,  Sir 
Peter  Denis,  gave  me  two  guineas,  and  my  Lady  made  me  a  present 
of  another.  No  doubt  I  should  have  spent  this  money  ha<l  I 
received  it  sooner  in  London ;  but  in  our  little  town  of  Winchelsea 


520  DENIS    DUVAL 

there  was  nothing  to  tempt  nic  in  the  sliops,  except  a  fowling- 
piece  at  the  pawnbroker's,  for  which  I  had  a  great  longing.  But 
Mr.  Tribaulet  wanted  four  guineas  for  the  gun,  and  I  had  but  three, 
and  would  not  go  into  debt.  He  would  have  given  me  the  piece  on 
credit,  and  frequently  tempted  me  with  it,  but  I  resisted  manfully, 
thougli  I  could  not  help  liankering  about  tlie  shop,  and  going 
again  and  again  to  look  at  the  beautiful  gun.  The  stock  fitted  my 
shoulder  to  a  nicety.  It  was  of  the  most  beautiful  workmansliip. 
"  Why  not  take  it  now.  Master  Duval  1 "  Monsieur  Triboulet  said 
to  me:  "and  pay  me  the  remaining  guinea  when  you  please. 
Ever  so  many  gentlemen  have  been  to  look  at  it ;  and  I  should  be 
sorry  now,  indeed  I  should,  to  see  such  a  beauty  go  out  of  the 
town."  As  I  was  talking  to  Tribovdet  (it  may  have  been  for  the 
tenth  time),  some  one  came  in  with  a  telescope  to  pawn,  and  went 
away  with  fifteen  shillings.  "Don't  you  know  who  that  is?"  says 
Triboulet  (who  was  a  chatterbox  of  a  man).  "  That  is  John 
Hookham's  wife.  It  is  but  hard  times  with  them  since  John's 
accident.  I  have  more  of  their  goods  here,  and  entre  nous,  John 
has  a  hard  landlord,  and  quarter-day  is  just  at  hand."  I  knew 
well  enough  that  John's  landlord  was  hard,  as  he  was  my  own 
grandfather.  "  If  I  take  my  three  pieces  to  Hookham,"  thought  I, 
"  he  may  find  the  rest  of  the  rent."  And  so  he  did  ;  and  my  three 
guineas  went  into  my  grandfather's  pocket  out  of  mine ;  and  I 
suppose  some  one  else  bought  tlie  fowling-piece  for  which  I  had  so 
longed. 

"  What,  it  is  you  who  have  given  me  this  money,  Master 
Denis  1 "  says  poor  Hookham,  who  was  sitting  in  his  chair,  groan- 
ing and  haggard  with  his  illness.  "  I  can't  take  it — I  ought  not 
to  take  it." 

"  Nay,"  said  I ;  "  I  should  only  have  bought  a  toy  with  it,  and 
if  it  comes  to  lielp  you  in  distress,  I  can  do  without  my  plaything." 

There  was  quite  a  chorus  of  benedictions  from  the  poor  family 
in  consequence  of  this  act  of  good-nature  ;  and  I  daresay  I  went 
away  from  Hookham's  mightily  pleased  with  myself  and  my  own 
virtue. 

It  appears  I  had  not  been  gone  long  when  Mr.  Joe  Weston 
3ame  in  to  see  the  man,  and  when  he  heard  tliat  I  had  relieved 
him,  broke  out  into  a  flood  of  abuse  against  me,  cursed  me  for  a 
scoundrel  and  impertinent  jackanapes,  who  was  always  giving 
myself  the  airs  of  a  gentleman,  and  flew  out  of  the  house  in  a 
passion.  Mother  heard  of  the  transaction,  too,  and  pinched  my 
ear  with  a  grim  satisfaction.  Grandfixther  said  nothing,  but 
pocketed  my  three  guineas  when  Mrs.  Hookham  brought  them ; 
and,  though  I  did  not  brag  about  the  matter  much,  everything  is 


I    ESCAPE    FROM    A    GREAT    DANGER        521 

known  in  a  small  town,  and  I  got  a  great  deal  of  credit  for  a  very- 
ordinary  good  action. 

And  now,  strangely  enough,  Hookham's  boy  confirmed  to  me 
what  the  Slindon  i)riests  had  hinted  to  good  Doctor  Barnard. 
"  Swear,"  says  Tom  (with  that  wonderful  energy  we  used  to  have 
as  boys) — "  Swear,  Denis,  '  So  helj)  you,  strike  you  down  dead ! ' 
you  never  will  tell !  " 

"  So  lieli3  me,  strike  me  down  dead  !  "  snid  I. 

"Well,  then,  those — you  know  wiio — the  gentlemen — want  to 
do  you  some  mischief." 

"  What  mischief  can  they  do  to  an  honest  boy  1-  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  they  are,"  says  Tom.  "  If  tlun' 
mean  a  man  harm,  harm  will  happen  to  him.  Father  says  no  man 
ever  comes  to  good  who  stands  in  Mr.  Joe's  way.  Where's  John 
Wheeler,  of  Rye,  who  had  a  quarrel  Avith  Mr.  Joe  1  He's  in  gaol. 
Mr.  Barnes,  of  Playden,  had  words  with  him  at  Hastings  market : 
and  Barnes's  ricks  were  burnt  down  before  six  months  were  over. 
How  was  Thomas  Berry  taken,  after  deserting  from  the  man-of- 
war  ?  He  is  an  awful  man,  Mr.  Joe  Weston  is.  Don't  get  into 
his  way.  Father  says  so.  But  you  are  not  to  tell — no,  never — 
that  he  spoke  about  it.  Don't  go  alone  to  Rye  of  nights,  Father 
says.  Don't  go  on  any — and  you  know  what — any  fishing  business, 
except  with  those  you  know."  And  so  Tom  leaves  me  with  a  finger 
to  his  lip  and  terror  in  liis  face. 

As  for  the  Jishin;/,  though  I  loved  a  sail  dearly,  my  mind  was 
made  up  by  good  Doctor  Barnard's  advice  to  me.  I  woidd  have  no 
more  night-fishing  such  as  I  had  seen  sometimes  as  a  boy ;  and 
when  Rudge's  apprentice  one  night  invited  me,  and  called  me  a 
coward  for  refusing  to  go,  I  showed  him  I  was  no  coward  as  far  as 
fisticufts  went,  and  stood  out  a  battle  with  him,  in  which  I  do 
beUeve  I  should  have  proved  conqueror,  though  the  fellow  was  four 
years  my  senior,  had  not  his  ally.  Miss  Sukey  Rudge,  joined  him  in 
the  midst  of  our  fight,  and  knocked  me  down  with  the  kitchen 
bellows,  when  they  both  belaboured  me,  as  I  lay  kicking  on  the 
ground.  Mr.  Elder  Rudge  came  in  at  the  close  of  this  dreadful 
combat,  and  his  abandoned  hussy  of  a  daughter  had  the  impudence 
to  declare  that  the  quarrel  arose  because  I  Avas  rude  to  her — I,  an 
innocent  boy,  who  would  as  soon  have  made  love  to  a  negress  as  to 
that  hideous,  pock-marked,  squinting,  crooked,  tipsy  Sukey  Rudge. 
I  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Squintum,  indeed  !  I  knew  a  pair  of  eyes 
at  home  so  bright,  innocent,  and  pure,  that  I  should  have  been 
ashamed  to  look  in  them  had  I  been  guilty  of  such  a  rascally 
treason.  My  little  maid  of  Winchelsea  heard  of  this  battle,  as 
she  was  daily  hearing  slanders  against  me  from  those  ivorthy  Mr. 


522  DENIS    DUVAL 

Westons  ;  but  she  bi'oke  into  ;i.  rage  at  the  acousation,  and  said  to 
the  assembled  gentlemen  (as  she  told  my  good  mother  in  after  days), 
"  Denis  Duval  is  not  wicked.  He  is  brave  and  he  is  good.  And 
it  is  not  true,  the  story  you  tell  against  him.     It  is  a  lie  ! " 

And  now,  once  more  it  happened  that  my  little  pistol  helped 
to  confound  my  enemies,  and  was  to  me,  indeed,  a  gute  Wehr  und 
Wajfen.  I  was  for  ever  popping  at  marks  with  this  little  piece  of 
artillery.  I  polished,  oiled,  and  covered  it  witli  the  utmost  care, 
and  kept  it  in  my  little  room  in  a  box  of  which  I  had  the  key. 
One  day,  by  a  most  fortunate  chance,  I  took  my  schoolfellow,  Tom 
Parrot,  who  became  a  great  crony  of  mine,  into  the  room.  We 
went  upstairs,  by  the  private  door  of  Rudge's  house,  and  not 
througli  the  shop,  where  Mademoiselle  Figs  and  Monsieur  the 
apprentice  were  serving  their  customers  ;  and  arrived  in  my  room, 
we  boys  opened  my  box,  examined  the  precious  pistol,  screw, 
barrel,  flints,  powder-horn,  &c.,  locked  the  box  and  went  away  to 
school,  promising  ourselves  a  good  afternoon's  sport  on  that  half- 
holiday.  Lessons  over,  I  returned  home  to  dinner,  to  find  black 
looks  from  all  the  inmates  of  the  house  wliere  I  lived,  from  the 
grocer,  his  daughter,  his  apprentice,  and  even  the  little  errand- 
boy  who  bla(dved  the  boots  and  swept  the  shop  stared  at  me  im- 
pertinently, and  said,  "  Oh,  Denis,  ain't  you  going  to  catch  it !  " 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked,  very  haughtily. 

"  Oh,  my  Lord  !  we'll  soon  show  your  Lordshiji  what  is  the 
matter."  (This  was  a  silly  nickname  I  had  in  the  town  and  at 
school,  where,  I  believe,  I  gave  myself  not  a  few  airs  since  I  had 
worn  my  fine  new  clothes,  and  paid  my  visit  to  London.)  "  This 
accounts  for  his  laced  waistcoat,  and  his  guineas  which  he  flings 
about.  Does  your  Lordsliip  know  these  here  shillings,  and  this 
half-crown  1  Look  at  them,  Mr.  Beales  !  See  the  marks  on  them 
which  I  scratched  with  my  own  hand  before  I  put  them  into  the 
till  from  which  my  Lord  took  'em." 

Shillings '? — till  ?  What  did  they  mean  ?  "  How  dare  you  ask, 
you  little  hypocrite  ! "  screams  out  Miss  Rudge.  "  I  marked  them 
shillings  and  that  half-crown  with  my  own  needle,  I  did ;  and  of 
tliat  I  can  take  my  Bible  oath." 

"  Well,  and  what  then  V  1  asked,  remembering  how  this  young 
woman  had  not  scrupled  to  bear  false  witness  in  another  charge 
against  me. 

"  What  then  1  They  were  in  tlie  till  this  morning,  young 
fellow :  and  you  know  well  enough  Avhere  they  were  found  after- 
wards," says  Mr.  Beales.  "  Come,  come  !  This  is  a  bad  job.  This 
is  a  sessions  job,  my  lad." 

"  But  where  tvere  they  found  1 "  again  I  asked. 


I    ESCAPE    FROM    A    GREAT    DANGER        523 

"We'll  tell  you  that  before  Squire  Boroughs  and  the  magistrates, 
you  young  vagabond  !  " 

"  You  little  viper,  that  have  turned  and  stung  me  !  " 

"You  precious  young  scoundrel !  " 

"You  wicked  little  story-telling,  good-for-nothing  little  thief!" 
cry  Rudge,  the  apprentice,  and  Miss  Rudge  in  a  breath.  And  I 
stood  bewildered  by  their  outcry,  and,  indeed,  not  quite  conipie- 
hending  the  charge  which  they  made  against  me. 

"  The  magistrates  are  sitting  at  the  Town  Hall  now.  We  v,ill 
take  the  little  villain  there  at  once,"  says  the  grocer.  "You 
bring  the  box  along  with  you,  constable.  Lord  !  Lord  !  what  will 
his  poor  grandfather  say  ? "  And,  Avondering  still  at  the  charge 
made  against  me,  I  was  made  to  walk  through  the  streets  to  the 
Town  Hfdl,  passing  on  the  way  by  at  least  a  score  of  our  boys,  who 
were  enjoying  their  half-holiday.  It  was  market-day,  too,  and  the 
town  full.  It  is  forty  years  ago,  but  I  dream  about  that  dreadful 
day  still ;  and,  an  ohl  gentleman  of  sixty,  fancy  myself  walking 
through  Rye  market,  with  Mr.  Beales's  fist  clutching  my  collar  ! 

A  number  of  our  boys  joined .  this  dismal  procession,  and 
accompanied  me  into  the  magistrates'  room.  "Denis  Duval  up 
for  stealing  money ! "  cries  one.  "  This  accounts  for  his  fine 
clothes,"  sneers  another.  "  He'll  be  hung,"  says  a  third.  The 
market  people  stare,  anil  crowd  round,  and  jeer.  I  feel  as  if  in 
a  horrible  nightmare.  AVe  pass  under  the  iiillars  of  the  Market 
House,  up  tlie  steps  to  the  Town  Hall,  where  the  magistrates 
were,  who  chose  market-tlay  for  their  sittings. 

How  my  heart  throbbed,  as  I  saw  my  dear  Doctor  Barnard 
seated  among  them. 

"Oh,  Doctor,"  cries  jwor  Denis,  clasping  his  hands,  "you  don't 
believe  me  guilty  1 " 

"  Guilty  of  what  ? "  cries  the  Doctor,  from  the  raised  table 
round  which  the  gentlemen  sat. 

"  Guilty  of  stealing." 

"Guilty  of  robl)ing  my  till." 

"Guilty  of  taking  two  half-crowns,  tliree  shillings  and  tM'0])ence 
in  copper,  all  marked. "'  sliriek  out  Rudge,  the  ap[)rentice,  and  Miss 
Rudge  in  a  breath. 

"  Denny  Duval  steal  sixpences  !  "  cries  the  Doctor  ;  "  I  would 
as  soon  believe  he  stole  the  dragon  off  the  church-steeple  !  " 

"  Silence,  you  boys  !  Silence  in  the  court  there  ;  or  flog  'em 
and  turn  'em  all  out,"  says  the  magistrates'  clerk.  Some  of  our 
boys  —  friends  of  mine  —  wlio  had  crowded  into  the  place,  were 
hurraying  at  my  kind  Doctor  Barnard's  speech. 

"  It  is  a  most  serious  charge,"  .says  the  clerk. 


524  DENIS    DUVAL 

"But  what  is  the  charge,  my  good  Mr.  Hickson?  You  might 
as  well  put  me  into  the  dock  as  that " 

"  Pray,  sir,  will  you  allow  the  business  of  the  court  to  go  on  1 " 
asks  the  clerk  testily.  "  Make  your  statement,  Mr.  Rudge,  and  don't 
be  afraid  of  anybody.     You  are  under  tlie  protection  of  the  court,  sir." 

And  now  for  the  first  time  I  heard  the  particulars  of  the  charge 
made  against  me.  Rudge,  and  his  daughter  after  him,  stated  (on 
oath,  I  am  shocked  to  say)  that  for  some  time  past  they  had  missed 
money  from  the  till ;  small  sums  of  money,  in  shillings  and  lialf- 
crowns,  they  could  not  say  how  nuich.  It  might  be  two  pounds, 
three  pounds,  in  all ;  but  the  money  was  constantly  going.  At 
last.  Miss  Rudge  said,  she  was  determined  to  mark  some  money, 
and  did  so ;  and  that  money  was  found  in  that  box  which  belonged 
to  Denis  Duval,  and  which  the  constable  brought  into  court. 

"  Oh,  gentlemen  !  "  I  cried  out  in  agony,  "it's  a  Avicked  Avicked 
lie,  and  it's  not  the  first  she  has  told  about  nie.  A  week  ago  she 
said  I  wanted  to  kiss  her,  and  she  and  Bevil  both  set  on  me ;  and 
I  never  wanted  to  kiss  the  nasty  thing,  so  help  me " 

"You  did,  you  lying  wickfed  boy!"  cries  Miss  Sukey.  "And 
Edward  Bevil  came  to  my  rescue ;  and  you  struck  me,  like  a  low 
mean  coward ;  and  we  beat  him  well  and  served  him  right,  the 
little  abandoned  boy." 

"And  he  kicked  one  of  my  teeth  out — you  did,  you  little 
villain  !  "  roars  Bevil,  whose  jaws  had  indeed  suffered  in  that  scuffle 
in  the  kitchen,  when  his  precious  sweetheart  came  to  his  aid  with 
the  bellows. 

"  He  called  me  a  coward,  and  I  fought  him  fair,  though  he  is 
ever  so  much  older  than  me,"  whimpers  out  the  prisoner.  "  And 
Sukey  Rudge  set  upon  me,  and  beat  me  too  ;  and  if  I  kicked  him, 
he  kicked  me." 

"  And  since  this  kicking  match  they  have  found  out  that  you 
stole  their  money,  have  they  1 "  says  the  Doctor,  and  turns  round, 
appealing  to  his  brother  magistrates. 

"  Miss  Rudge,  please  to  tell  the  rest  of  your  story,"  calls  out 
tlie  justices'  clerk. 

The  rest  of  the  Rudges'  story  was,  that  having  their  suspicions 
roused  against  me,  they  determined  to  examine  my  cupboards  and 
boxes  in  my  absence,  to  see  whether  the  stolen  objects  were  to  be 
found,  and  in  my  box  they  discovered  the  two  marked  half-crowns, 
the  three  marked  shillings,  a  brass-barrelled  pistol,  which  were  now 
in  court.  "  Me  and  Mr.  Bevil,  the  apprentice,  found  the  money  in 
the  box ;  and  we  called  my  papa  from  the  shop,  and  we  fetched 
Mr.  Beales,  the  constable,  who  lives  over  the  way  ;  and  when  the 
little  monster  came  back  from  school,   we  seized  upon  him,  and 


EVIDENCE    B'OR    THE    DEFENCE. 


I   ESCAPE    FROM    A    GREAT    DANGER       525 

brought  him  before  your  worships,  uud  liangiiig  is  what  I  said  he 
woukl  always  come  to,"  shrieks  my  enemy  Miss  Rudge. 

"  Why,  I  have  the  key  of  that  box  in  my  pocket  now  ! "  I 
cried  out. 

"  We  had  means  of  opening  it,"  says  Miss  Rudge,  looking 
very  red. 

"  Oh,  if  you  have  another  key "  interposes  the  Doctor. 

"  We  broke  it  oi)en  with  the  tongs  and  p»oker,"  says  Miss 
Rudge,  "me  and  Edward  did — I  mean  Mr.  Bevil,  the  apprentice." 

"When?"  said  I,  in  a  great  tremor. 

"  When  ?  Wlien  you  was  at  school,  you  little  miscreant ! 
Half-an-hour  before  you  came  back  to  dinner." 

"Tom  Parrot,  Tom  Parrot!"  I  cried.  "Call  Tom  Parrot, 
gentlemen.  For  goodness'  sake  call  Tom  ! "  I  said,  my  heart  beat- 
ing so  that  I  could  hardly  sjieak. 

"  Here  I  am,  Denny,"  pipes  Tom  in  the  crowd ;  and  presently 
he  comes  up  to  their  honours  on  the  bencii. 

"  Speak  to  Tom,  Doctor,  dear  Doctor  Barnard  ! "  I  continued. 
"  Tom,  when  did  I  show  you  my  pistol  1 " 

"  Just  before  ten  o'clock  school." 

"What  did  I  do?" 

"  You  unlocked  your  box,  took  the  pistol  out  of  a  handkerchief, 
showed  it  to  me,  and  two  flints,  a  powder-horn,  a  bullet-mould,  and 
some  bullets,  and  put  them  back  again,  and  locked  the  box." 

"  Was  there  any  money  in  the  box  1 " 

"  There  was  nothing  in  tlie  box  but  the  pistol,  and  the  bullets 
and  things.     I  looked  into  it.     It  was  as  empty  as  my  hand." 

"And  Denis  Duval  has  been  sitting  by  you  in  school  ever  since?" 

"  Ever  since — except  when  I  was  called  up  and  caned  for  my 
Corderius,"  says  Tom,  with  a  roguish  look  ;  and  there  was  a  great 
laughter  and  shout  of  applause  from  our  boys  of  Pocock's  when 
this  testimony  was  given  in  their  schoolfellow's  favour. 

My  kind  Doctor  held  his  hand  over  the  railing  to  me,  and 
when  I  took  it,  my  heart  was  so  full  that  my  eyes  ovei-flowed.  I 
thought  of  little  Agnes.  What  Avould  she  have  felt  if  her  Denis 
had  been  committed  as  a  thief?  I  had  such  a  rapture  of  thanks 
and  gratitude  that  I  think  the  pleasure  of  the  ac(juittal  was  more 
than  equivalent  to  the  anguish  of  the  accusation.  What  a  shout 
all  Pocock's  boys  set  up,  as  I  went  out  of  tlie  justice-room  !  We 
trooped  joyfully  down  the  stairs,  and  there  were  fresh  shouts  and 
huzzays  as  we  got  down  to  the  market.  I  saw  Mr.  Joe  Weston 
buying  corn  at  a  stall.  He  only  looked  at  me  once.  His  grind- 
ing teeth  and  his  clenched  riding- whip  did  not  frighten  me  iu  the 
least  now. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   LAST  OF  MY  SCHOOLDAYS 

AS  our  joyful  procession  of  boys  passed  by  Partlett's  the 
pastry-cook's,  one  of  tlie  boys — Samuel  Arbin — I  remem- 
^  l)er  the  fellow  well — a  greedy  boy,  with  a  large  beard 
and  whiskers,  thougli  only  fifteen  years  old— insisted  that  I  ought 
to  stand  treat  in  consequence  of  my  victory  over  my  enemies. 
As  far  as  a  groat  went,  I  said  I  was  ready :  for  that  was  all  the 
money  I  had. 

"  Oh,  you  story-teller  !  "  cries  the  other.  "  What  have  you  done 
with  your  three  guineas  which  you  were  bragging  about  and  showing 
to  the  boys  at  school  1  I  suppose  they  were  in  the  box  when  it 
was  broken  open."  This  Samuel  Arbin  was  one  of  the  boys  who 
hail  jeered  when  I  was  taken  in  charge  by  the  constable,  and  would 
have  liked  me  to  be  guilty,  I  almost  think.  I  am  afraid  I  had 
bragged  about  my  money  when  I  ]>ossessed  it,  and  may  have  shown 
my  shining  gold  pieces  to  some  of  the  boys  in  school. 

"  I  know  what  he  has  done  with  his  money ! "  broke  in  my 
steadfast  crony  Tom  Parrot.  "  He  has  given  away  every  shilling 
of  it  to  a  poor  family  who  wanted  it,  and  nobody  ever  knew  you 
give  away  a  shilling,  Samuel  Arbin,"  he  says. 

"  Unless  he  could  get  eighteenpence  by  it ! "  sang  out  another 
little  voice. 

"  Tom  Parrot,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body,  as  sure  as 
my  name  is  Arbin  ! "  cried  the  other,  in  a  fury. 

"  Sam  Arbin,"  said  I,  "  after  you  have  finished  Tom,  you  must 
try  me  ;  or  we'll  do  it  now,  if  you  like."  To  say  the  truth,  I  had 
long  had  an  inclination  to  try  my  hand  against  Arbin.  He  was  an 
ill  friend  to  me,  and  amongst  the  younger  boys  a  bully  and  a  usurer 
to  boot.  The  rest  called  out,  "  A  ring  !  a  ring  !  Let  us  go  on  the 
green  and  have  it  out ! "  being  in  their  innocent  years  always  ready 
for  a  fight. 

But  this  one  was  never  to  come  off :  and  (except  in  later  days, 
when  I  went  to  revisit  the  old  place,  and  ask  for  a  half-holiday  for 
my  young  successors  at  Pocock's)  I  was  never  again  to  see  the 
ancient  schoolroom.     While  we  boys  were  brawling  in  the  market- 


THE    LAST    OF    MY    SCHOOLDAYS  527 

place  before  the  pastrycook's  door,  Doctor  Barnard  came  up,  and 
our  quarrel  was  hushed  in  a  moment. 

"  What !  fighting  and  quarrelling  already  1 "  says  the  Doctor 
sternly. 

"  It  wasn't  Denny's  foult,  sir ! "  cried  out  several  of  the  boys. 
"  It  was  Arbin  began."  And,  indeed,  I  can  say  for  myself  that  in 
all  the  quarrels  I  have  had  in  life— and  they  have  not  been  few — I 
consider  I  always  have  been  in  the  right. 

"  Come  along  with  me,  Denny,"  says  the  Doctor,  taking  me  by 
the  shoulder :  and  he  led  me  away  and  we  took  a  walk  in  the  town 
together,  and  as  we  passed  old  Ypres  Tower,  which  was  built  by 
King  Stephen,  they  say,  and  was  a  fort  in  old  days,  but  is  used  as 
the  town-prison  now,  "  Suppose  you  had  been  looking  from  behind 
those  bars  now,  Denny,  and  awaiting  your  trial  at  assizes  ?  Yours 
would  not  have  been  a  pleasant  plight,"  Doctor  Barnard  said. 

"  But  I  was  innocent,  sir  !     You  know  I  was  !  " 

"Yes.  Praise  be  where  i)raise  is  due.  But  if  you  had  not 
providentially  been  able  to  prove  your  innocence — if  you  and  your 
friend  Parrot  had  not  happened  to  inspect  your  box,  you  would 
have  been  in  yonder  place.  Ha  !  there  is  the  bell  ringing  for  after- 
noon service,  which  my  good  friend  Doctor  Wing  keeps  up.  What 
say  you  1  Shall  we  go  and — and — oiler  up  our  thanks,  Denny — 
for  the — the  immense  peril  from  which — you  have  been—  delivered  ?  " 

I  remember  how  my  dear  friend's  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke, 
and  two  or  three  drops  fell  from  his  kind  eyes  on  my  hand,  which 
he  held.  I  followed  him  into  the  church.  Indeed  and  indeed  I 
was  thankful  for  my  deliverance  from  a  great  danger,  and  even 
more  thankful  to  have  the  regard  of  the  true  gentleman,  the  wise 
and  tender  friend,  who  was  tliere  to  guide,  and  cheer,  and  help  me. 

As  we  read  the  last  psalm  a])pointed  for  that  evening  service,  I 
remember  how  the  good  man,  bowing  his  own  head,  put  his  hand 
upon  mine ;  and  we  recited  together  the  psalm  of  thanks  to  the 
Highest,  who  had  had  respect  unto  the  lowly,  and  who  had 
stretched  forth  His  hand  upon  the  furiousness  of  my  enemies,  and 
whose  right  hand  had  saved  me. 

Doctor  Wing  recognised  and  greeted  his  comrade  when  service 
was  over :  and  the  one  Doctor  presented  me  to  the  other,  who  had 
been  one  of  the  magistrates  on  the  bench  at  the  time  of  my  trial. 
Doctor  Wing  asked  us  into  his  house,  where  dinner  was  served  at 
four  o'clock,  and  of  course  the  transactions  of  the  morning  were 
again  discussed.  What  could  be  the  reason  of  the  persecution 
against  me?  Who  instigated  if?  There  were  matters  connected 
witli  this  story  regarding  which  I  cotdd  not  speak.  Should  I  do 
so,  I  must  betray  secrets  which  were  not  mine,  and  which  impli- 


528  DENIS    DUVAL 

cated  I  knew  not  whom,  and  regarding  which  I  must  hold  my 
peace.  Now,  they  are  secrets  no  more.  That  old  society  of 
smugglers  is  dissolved  long  ago :  nay,  I  shall  have  to  tell  presently 
how  I  helped  myself  to  break  it  up.  Grandfather,  Rudge,  the 
Chevalier,  the  gentlemen  of  the  Priory,  were  all  connected  in  that 
great  smuggling  society  of  which  I  have  spoken ;  which  had  its 
depots  all  along  the  coast  and  inland,  and  its  correspondents  from 
Dunkirk  to  Havre  de  Grace.  I  have  said  as  a  boy  how  I  had  been 
on  some  of  these  "fishing"  expeditions;  and  how,  mainly  by  the 
effect  of  my  dear  Doctor's  advice,  I  had  withdrawn  from  all  par- 
ticipation in  this  lawless  and  wicked  life.  When  Bevil  called  me 
coward  for  refusing  to  take  a  share  in  a  night-cruise,  a  quarrel 
ensued  between  us,  ending  in  that  battle  royal  which  left  us 
all  sprawling,  and  cuffing  and  kicking  eacli  other  on  the  kitchen 
floor.  Was  it  rage  at  the  injury  to  her  sweetheart's  teeth,  or 
hatred  against  myself,  which  induced  my  sweet  Miss  Sukey  to 
propagate  calumnies  against  me?  The  provocation  I  had  given 
certainly  did  not  seem  to  warrant  such  a  deadly  enmity  as  a  pro- 
secution and  a  perjury  showed  must  exist.  Howbeit,  there  was  a 
reason  for  the  anger  of  the  grocer's  daughter  and  apprentice.  They 
would  injure  me  in  any  way  they  could ;  and  (as  in  the  before- 
mentioned  case  of  the  bellows)  take  the  first  weapon  at  hand  to 
overthrow  me. 

As  magistrates  of  the  county,  and  knowing  a  great  deal  of 
what  was  happening  round  about  them,  and  the  character  of  tlieir 
parishioners  and  neiglibours,  the  two  gentlemen  could  not,  then, 
press  me  too  closely.  Smuggled  silk  and  lace,  rum  and  brandy  ? 
Who  had  not  these  in  his  possession  along  the  Sussex  and  Kent 
coast  ?  "  And,  Wing,  will  you  promise  me  there  are  no  ribbons 
in  your  house  but  such  as  have  paid  duty  1 "  asks  one  Doctor  of 
the  other. 

"  My  good  friend,  it  is  lucky  my  wife  has  gone  to  her  tea- 
table,"  replies  Doctor  Wing,  "  or  I  would  not  answer  for  the  peace 
being  kept." 

"My  dear  Wing,"  continues  Doctor  Barnard,  "this  brandy 
punch  is  excellent,  and  is  worthy  of  being  smuggled.  To  run  an 
anker  of  brandy  seems  no  monstrous  crime ;  but  when  men  engage 
in  these  lawless  ventures  at  all,  wlio  knows  how  far  the  evil  will 
go  ?  I  buy  ten  kegs  of  brandy  from  a  French  fishing-boat,  I  land  it 
under  a  lie  on  the  coast,  I  send  it  inland  ever  so  far,  be  it  from 
here  to  York,  and  all  my  consignees  lie  and  swindle.  I  land  it, 
and  lie  to  the  revenue  officer.  Under  a  lie  (that  is,  a  mutual 
secrecy)  I  sell  it  to  the  landlord  of  '  The  Bell '  at  Maidstone,  say — 
where  a  good  friend  of  ours,  Denny,  looked  at  his  pistols.     You 


THE    LAST    OF    MY    SCHOOLDAYS  52f) 

remember  the  day  when  his  brother  received  the  charge  of  shot  in 
his  face  ?  My  landlord  sells  it  to  a  customer  under  a  lie  We  are 
all  engaged  in  crime,  conspiracy,  and  falsehood ;  nay,  if  the  revenue 
looks  too  closely  after  us,  we  out  with  our  pistols,  and  to  crime  and 
conspiracy  add  murder.  Do  you  supi)ose  men  engaged  in  lying 
every  day  will  scruple  about  a  false  oath  in  a  witness-box?  Crime 
engenders  crime,  sir.  Round  about  tis,  Wing,  I  know  there  exists 
a  vast  confederacy  of  fraud,  greed,  and  rebellion.  I  name  no 
names,  sir.  I  fear  men  high  placed  in  the  world's  esteem,  and 
largely  endowed  with  its  riches  too,  are  concerned  in  the  jjursuit  of 
this  godless  traffic  of  smuggling,  and  to  what  does  it  not  lead  them  1 
To  falsehood,  to  wickedness,  to  murder,  to " 

"Tea,  sir,  if  you  please,  sir,"  says  John,  entering.  '  My 
mistress  and  the  young  ladies  are  waiting." 

The  ladies  had  previously  heard  the  story  of  poor  Denis  Duval's 
persecution  and  innocence,  and  had  shown  him  great  kindness.  By 
the  time  when  we  joined  them  after  dinner,  they  had  had  time  to 
perform  a  new  toilette,  being  engaged  to  cards  with  some  neigh- 
bours. I  knew  Mrs.  Wing  was  a  customer  to  my  mother  for  some 
of  her  French  goods,  and  she  would  scarcely,  on  an  ordinary 
occasion,  have  admitted  such  a  lowly  guest  to  her  table  as  the 
humble  dressmaker's  boy  ;  but  she  and  the  ladies  were  very  kind, 
and  my  })ersecution  and  proved  innocence  had  interested  them  in 
my  favour. 

"You  have  had  a  long  sitting,  gentlemen,"  says  Mrs.  Wing: 
"  I  suppose  you  have  been  deep  in  politics,  and  the  quarrel  with 
France." 

"  We  have  been  speaking  of  France  and  French  goods,  my 
dear,"  said  Doctor  Wing  drily. 

"  And  of  the  awful  crime  of  smuggling  and  encouiaging 
smuggling,  my  dear  Mrs.  Wing  ! "  cries  my  Doctor. 

"  Indeed,  Doctor  Barnard  ! "  Now  Mrs.  Wing  and  the  young 
ladies  were  dressed  in  smart  new  caps,  and  ribbons,  which  my 
poor  mother  supplied  ;  and  the?/  turned  red,  and  I  turned  as  led 
as  the  cap-ribbons,  as  I  thought  how  my  good  ladies  had  been 
provided.  No  wonder  Mrs.  Wing  w^as  desirous  to  change  tlie 
subject  of  conversation. 

"  What  is  this  young  man  to  do  after  his  persecution  ? "  she 
asked.  "  He  can't  go  back  to  Mr.  Rudge— that  horrid  Wesleyan 
who  has  accused  liim  of  stealing." 

No,  indeed,  I  could  not  go  back.     We  had  not  thought  about 
the  matter  until  then.     There  had  been  a  hundred  things  to  agitate 
and  interest  me  In  the  half-dozen  hours  since  my  apprehension  and 
dismissal. 
34 


530  DENIS    DUVAL 

The  Doctor  would  take  me  to  Wiiichelsea  in  his  chaise.  1 
could  not  go  back  to  my  persecutors,  tliat  was  clear,  except  tc 
reclaim  my  little  property  and  my  poor  little  boxes,  which  they 
had  found  means  to  open.  Mrs.  Wing  gave  me  a  hand,  the  youn^ 
ladies  a  stately  curtsey ;  and  my  good  Doctor  Barnard  putting  a 
liand  under  the  arm  of  the  barber's  grandson,  we  quitted  these  kind 
people.  I  was  not  on  the  quarter-deck  as  yet,  you  see.  I  was  but 
a  humble  lad  belonging  to  ordinary  tradesmen. 

By  the  way,  I  had  forgotten  to  say  that  the  two  clergymen, 
during  their  after-dinner  talk,  had  employed  a  part  of  it  in 
examining  me  as  to  my  little  store  of  learning  at  school,  and  my 
futui-e  prospects.  Of  Latin  I  had  a  smattering ;  French,  owing  to 
my  l)irtli,  and  mainly  to  Monsieur  de  la  Motte's  instruction  and 
conversation,  I  could  speak  better  than  either  of  my  two  examiners, 
an<l  with  quite  the  good  manner  and  conversation.  I  was  well 
advanced,  too,  in  arithmetic  and  geometry ;  and  Dampier's  Voyages 
were  as  much  my  delight  as  tliose  of  Sinbad  or  my  friends  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  Man  Friday.  I  could  pass  a  good  examination  in 
navigation  and  seamanship,  and  could  give  an  account  of  the 
different  sailings,  working-tides,  double-altitudes,  and  so  fortli. 

"  And  you  can  manage  a  boat  at  sea,  too  1 "  says  Doctor 
Barnard  drily.  I  blushed,  I  suppose.  I  could  do  that,  and 
could  steer,  reef,  and  pull  an  oar.  At  least  I  could  do  so  two 
years  ago. 

"  Denny,  my  boy,"  says  my  good  Doctor,  "  I  think  'tis  time 
for  thee  to  leave  this  school,  at  any  rate,  and  that  our  friend  Sir 
Peter  must  provide  for  thee." 

However  he  may  desire  to  improve  in  learning,  no  boy,  I  fancy, 
is  very  sorry  when  a  proposal  is  made  to  him  to  leave  school.  I 
said  that  I  should  be  too  glad  if  Sir  Peter,  my  patron,  would 
provide  for  me.  With  the  education  I  had,  I  ought  to  get  on,  the 
Doctor  said,  and  my  grandfather  he  was  sure  would  find  the  means 
for  allowing  me  to  appear  like  a  gentleman. 

To  fit  a  boy  for  appearance  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  to  enable 
him  to  rank  with  others,  I  had  heard  would  cost  thirty  or  forty 
pounds  a  year  at  least.  I  asked,  did  Doctor  Barnard  think  my 
grandfather  could  afford  sucli  a  sum  1 

"  I  know  not  your  grandfather's  means,"  Doctor  Barnard 
answered,  smiling.  "  He  keeps  his  own  counsel.  But  I  am  very 
much  mistaken,  Denny,  if  he  cannot  afford  to  make  you  a  better 
allowance  than  many  a  fine  gentleman  can  give  his  son.  I  believe 
him  to  be  rich.  Mind,  I  have  no  precise  reason  for  my  belief;  but 
I  fancy,  Master  Denis,  your  good  Grandpapa's  ^■s^^?^y  has  been  very 
profitable  to  him." 


THE    LAST    OF    MY   SCHOOLDAYS  531 

How  rich  was  he  ?  I  began  to  think  of  the  treasures  in  my 
favourite  "Araliian  Niglits."  Did  Doctor  Barnard  think  Grand- 
father was  vertj  rich  1  Well — the  Doctor  could  not  tell.  The  notion 
in  Winchelsea  was  that  old  Mr.  Peter  was  very  well-to-do.  At  any 
rate,  I  must  go  back  to  him.  It  was  impossible  that  I  should  stay 
with  the  Rudge  family  after  the  insulting  treatment  I  had  had  from 
them.  The  Doctor  said  he  would  take  me  home  with  him  in  his 
chaise,  if  I  would  pack  my  little  trunks ;  and  with  this  talk  we 
reached  Rudge's  slioj),  M'hich  I  entered  not  without  a  beating  heart. 
There  was  Rudge  glaring  at  me  from  behind  his  desk,  wliere  he  was 
posting  his  books.  The  apprentice  looked  daggers  at  me  as  he  came 
up  through  a  trap-door  from  the  cellar  with  a  string  of  dii>candles ; 
and  my  charming  Miss  Susan  was  behind  the  counter  tossing  up  her 
ugly  head. 

"  Ho  !  he's  come  back,  have  he  ? "  says  Miss  Rudge.  "  As  all 
the  cupboards  is  locked  in  the  parlour,  you  can  go  in,  and  get  your 
tea  there,  young  man." 

"  I  am  going  to  take  Denis  home,  Mr.  Rudge,"  said  my  kind 
Doctor.  "  He  cannot  remain  with  you,  after  the  charge  which  you 
made  against  him  this  morning." 

"  Of  having  our  marked  money  in  his  box  1  Do  you  go  for  to 
dare  for  to  say  we  put  it  there  1 "  cries  Miss,  glaring  now  at  me,  now 
at  Doctor  Barnard.  "  Go  to  say  that !  Please  to  say  that  once. 
Doctor  Barnard,  before  Mrs.  Barker  and  Mrs.  Scales  "  (these  were 
two  women  who  happened  to  be  in  the  shop  purchasing  goods). 
"  Just  be  so  good  for  to  say  before  these  ladies,  that  we  have  put  the 
money  in  that  boy's  box,  and  we'll  see  whether  there  is  not  justice 
in  Hengland  for  a  poor  girl  whom  you  insult,  because  you  are  a 
doctor  and  a  magistrate  indeed  !  Eh,  if  I  was  a  man,  I  wouldn't  let 
some  people's  gowns,  and  cassocks,  and  bands,  remain  long  on  their 
backs — tliat  I  wouldn't.  And  some  people  wouldn't  see  a  Avoman 
insulted  if  they  wasn't  cowards  ! "  As  she  said  this,  Miss  Sukey 
looked  at  the  cellar-trap,  above  which  the  apprentice's  head  had 
appeared,  but  the  Doctor  turned  also  towards  it  with  a  glance  so 
threatening,  that  Bevil  let  the  trap  fall  suddenly  down,  not  a  little 
to  my  Doctor's  amusement. 

"  Go  and  pack  thy  trunk,  Denny.  I  will  come  back  for  thee  iu 
half-an-hour.  Mr.  Rudge  must  see  that  after  being  so  insulted  as 
you  have  been,  yon  never  as  a  gentleman  can  stay  in  this  house." 

"  A  pretty  gentleman,  indeed  !  "  ejaculates  Miss  Rudge.  "  Pray 
how  long  since  was  barbers  gentlemen,  I  should  like  to  know"?  Mrs. 
Scales  nnun,  Mrs.  Barker  mum,^ — did  you  ever  have  your  hair 
dressed  by  a  gentleman  ?  If  you  want  for  to  have  it,  you  nuist  go 
to  Mounseer  Duval,  at  Winchelsea,  wliicli  one  of  the  name  was 


532  DENIS    DUVAL 

hung,  Mrs.  Barker  mum,  for  a  thief  and  a  robber,  and  he  won't  be 
the  last  neith(!r." 

There  was  no  use  in  bandying  abuse  with  tliis  woman,  "  I  will 
go  and  get  my  trunk,  and  be  ready,  sir,"  I  said  to  the  Doctor ;  but 
his  back  was  no  sooner  turned  than  the  raging  virago  opposite  me 
burst  out  Avith  a  fury  of  words,  that  I  certainly  can't  remember  after 
five-and-forty  years.  I  flxncy  I  see  now  the  little  green  eyes  gleam- 
ing hatred  at  me,  the  lean  arms  akimbo,  the  feet  stamping  as  she 
hisses  out  every  imaginable  imprecation  at  my  poor  liead. 

"  Will  no  man  help  me,  and  stand  by  and  see  that  barber's  boy 
insult  me  1 "  she  cried.      "  Bevil,  I  say — Bevil !     'Elp  me  !  " 

I  ran  upstairs  to  my  little  room,  and  was  not  twenty  minutes  in 
making  up  my  packages.  I  had  passed  years  in  that  little  room, 
and  somehow  grieved  to  leave  it.  The  odious  ])Coi)le  had  injured 
me,  and  yet  I  would  have  liked  to  part  friends  with  them.  I  had 
passed  delightful  nights  there  in  the  company  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
Mariner,  and  Monsieur  Galland  and  his  Contes  Ai-abes,  and  Hector 
of  Troy,  whose  adventures  and  lamentable  death  (out  of  Mr.  Pope) 
1  ("ould  recite  by  heart ;  and  I  had  had  weary  nights,  too,  with 
my  school-books,  cramming  that  crabbed  Latin  grammar  into  my 
puzzled  brain.  With  arithmetic,  logarithms,  and  mathematics  I 
have  said  I  was  more  familiar.  I  took  a  pretty  good  place  in  our 
school  with  them,  and  ranked  before  many  boys  of  greater  age. 

And  now  my  boxes  being  packed  (my  little  library  being  stowed 
away  in  that  which  contained  my  fomous  pistol),  I  brought  them 
downstairs,  with  nobody  to  help  me,  and  had  them  in  the  passage 
ready  against  Doctor  Barnard's  arrival.  The  passage  is  behind  the 
back  shop  at  Rudge's — (dear  me  !  how  well  I  remember  it !)  and  a 
door  thence  leads  into  a  side  street.  On  the  other  side  of  this 
passage  is  the  kitchen,  where  had  been  the  fight  which  has  been 
described  already,  and  where  we  commonly  took  our  meals. 

I  declare  I  went  into  that  kitchen  disposed  to  part  friends 
with  all  these  people — to  forgive  Miss  Sukey  her  lies,  and  Bevil 
his  cuff-;,  and  all  tlie  past  quarrels  between  us.  Old  Rudge  was 
by  the  fire,  having  his  supper ;  Miss  Snkey  opposite  to  him.  Bevil, 
as  yet,  was  minding  the  shop. 

"  I  am  come  to  shake  hands  before  going  away,"  I  said. 

"  You're  a-going,  are  you  1  And  pray,  sir,  wherehever  are  you 
a-going  of?"  says  Miss  Sukey  over  her  tea. 

"  I  am  going  home  with  Doctor  Barnard.  I  can't  stop  in  this 
house  after  you  have  accused  me  of  stealing  your  money." 

"  Stealing  !  Wasn't  the  money  in  your  box,  you  little  beastly 
.  thief?" 

"  Oh,   you  young  reprobate,   I  am  surprised  the  bears  don't 


THE    LAST    OF    MY    SCHOOLDAYS  533 

come  in  and  eat  you,"  groans  old  Rudge.  "  You  have  shortened 
my  life  with  your  wickedness,  that  you  have ;  and  if  you  don't 
bring  your  good  grandfather's  grey  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave, 
I  shall  be  surprised,  that  I  shall.  You,  who  come  of  a  pious 
family — I  tremble  when  I  think  of  you,  Denis  Duval !  " 

"  Tremble  !  Faugh  !  the  wicked  little  beast !  he  makes  me 
sick,  he  do  !  "  ciies  Miss  Sukcy,  with  looks  of  genuine  loathing. 

"Let  him  dc])art  from  among  us  !"  cries  Rudge. 

"  Never  do  I  wish  to  see  his  ugly  face  again  ! "  exclaims  the 
gentle  Susan. 

"  I  am  going  as  soon  as  Doctor  Barnard's  chaise  comes,"  I  said. 
"My  boxes  are  in  the  passage  now,  ready  packed." 

"Ready  ])ackod,  are  they?  Is  there  any  more  of  our  money 
in  them,  you  little  miscreant  ?  Pa,  is  your  silver  tankard  in  the 
cupboard,  and  is  the  spoons  safe  ? " 

I  think  poor  Sukey  had  been  drinking  to  drive  away  the 
mortifications  of  the  morning  in  the  court-house.  She  became 
more  excited  and  violent  with  every  word  she  spoke,  and  shrieked 
and  clenched  her  fists  at  me  like  a  madwoman. 

"  Susanna,  you  have  had  false  witness  bore  against  you,  my 
child ;  and  you  are  not  the  first  of  your  name.  But  be  calm,  be 
calm  ;  it's  our  duty  to  be  calm  !  " 

"  Eh  ! "  (here  she  gives  a  grunt).  "  Calm  with  that  sneak 
— that  pig — that  liar — that  beast!  Where's  Edward  BeviU 
Why  don't  he  come  forward  like  a  man,  and  flog  the  young 
scoundrel's  life  out  1 "  shrieks  Susanna.  "  Oh,  with  this  here 
horsewhip,  how  I  would  like  to  give  it  you  ! "  (She  clutched  her 
father's  whip  from  the  dresser,  where  it  commonly  hung  on  two 
hooks.)  "  Oil,  you — you  villain  !  you  have  got  your  pistol,  have 
you  1  Shoot  me,  you  little  coward,  I  ain't  afraid  of  you  !  You 
have  your  pistol  in  your  box,  have  you  1 "  (I  uselessly  said  as  much 
in  reply  to  this  taunt.)  "Stop  !  I  say,  pa, — that  young  thief  isn't 
going  away  with  them  boxes,  and  robbing  the  whole  house  as  he 
may.  Open  the  boxes  this  instant !  We'll  see  he's  stole  nothing  ! 
Open  them,  I  say  !  " 

I  said  I  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  My  blood  was  boiling 
up  at  this  brutal  behaviour ;  and  as  she  dashed  out  of  the  room 
to  seize  one  of  my  boxes,  I  put  myself  before  her,  and  sat  down 
on  it. 

This  was  assuredly  a  bad  position  to  take,  for  the  furious 
vixen  began  to  strike  nie  and  lash  at  my  face  with  the  riding- 
whip,  and  it  was  more  than  I  could  do  to  wrench  it  from  her. 

Of  course,  at  this  act  of  defence  on  my  part,  Miss  Sukey  yelled 
for  help,  and  called  out,  "  Edward  !     Ned  Bevil !     The  coward  is 


534.  DENIS    DUVAL 

a-striking  me  !  Help,  Ned  !  "  At  this,  the  shop  door  flies  open, 
and  Sukey's  champion  is  about  to  rush  on  me,  but  he  breaks  down 
over  my  other  box  with  a  crash  of  liis  shins,  and  frightful  execra- 
tions. His  nose  is  prone  on  the  pavement ;  Miss  Sukey  is  wildly 
laying  about  her  with  her  horsewhip  (and  I  think  Bevil's  jacket 
came  in  for  most  of  the  blows) ;  we  are  all  higfiledy-2ngrfledy, 
plunging  and  scuffling  in  the  dark — wdien  a  carriage  drives  up,  which 
I  had  not  heard  in  the  noise  of  action,  and  as  the  hall  door  opened, 
I  was  pleased  to  think  that  Doctor  Barnard  had  arrived,  according 
to  his  promise. 

It  was  not  the  Doctor.  The  new-comer  wore  a  gown,  but  not 
a  cassock.  Soon  after  my  trial  before  the  magistrates  Avas  over, 
our  neighbour  John  Jephson,  of  Winchelsea,  mounted  his  cart  and 
rode  home  from  Rye  market.  He  straightway  went  to  our  house, 
and  told  my  mother  of  the  strange  scene  which  had  just  occurred, 
and  of  my  accusation  before  the  magistrates  and  acquittal.  She 
begged,  she  ordered  Jephson  to  lend  her  his  cart.  She  seized  whip 
and  reins ;  she  drove  over  to  Rye ;  and  I  don't  envy  Jephson's  old 
grey  mare  that  journey  with  such  a  charioteer  behind  her.  The 
door,  opening  from  the  street,  flung  light  into  the  passage ;  and 
beliold,  we  three  warriors  were  sprawling  on  the  floor  in  the 
higgledy-piggledy  stage  of  tlie  battle  as  my  mother  entered  ! 

What  a  scene  for  a  mother  witli  a  strong  arm,  a  warm  heart, 
and  a  high  temper !  Madame  Duval  rushed  instantly  at  Miss 
Susan,  and  tore  her  shrieking  from  my  body,  which  fair  Susan  Avas 
pummelling  with  the  whip.  A  part  of  Susan's  cap  and  tufts  of  her 
red  hair  were  torn  off  by  this  maternal  Amazon,  and  Susan  was 
hurled  tlirough  the  open  door  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  fell  before 
her  frightened  father.  I  don't  know  how  many  blows  my  parent 
inflicted  upon  this  creature.  Mother  might  have  slain  her,  but  that 
the  chaste  Susanna,  screaming  shrilly,  rolled  under  the  deal  kitchen 
table. 

Madame  Duval  had  wrenched  away  from  this  young  person  the 
horsewhip  with  which  Susan  had  been  operating  upon  the  shoulders 
of  her  only  son,  and  snatched  the  weapon  as  her  fallen  foe  dropped. 
And  now  my  mamma,  seeing  old  Mr.  Rudge  sitting  in  a  ghastly 
state  of  terror  in  the  corner,  rushed  at  the  grocer,  and  in  one 
minute,  with  butt  and  thong,  inflicted  a  score  of  lashes  over  his 
face,  nose,  and  eyes,  for  which  anybody  who  chooses  may  pity  him. 
"  Ah,  you  will  call  my  boy  a  thief,  Avill  you  ?  Ah,  you  will  take 
my  Denny  before  the  justices,  will  you  1  Prends-moi  (;,a,  gredin ! 
Attrape,  lache  !  Nimm  noch  ein  Paar  Schlage,  Spitzbube ! "  cries 
out  Mother,  in  that  polyglot  language  of  English,  French,  Higli- 
Dutch,  which  she  always  used  when   excited.     My  good   mothet 


THE    LAST    OF    MY    SCHOOLDAYS  535 

could  shave  and  dress  gentlemen's  heads  as  well  as  any  man ;  and 
faith,  I  am  certain  that  no  man  in  all  Europe  got  a  better  dressing 
than  Mr.  Rudge  on  that  evening. 

Bless  me  !  I  have  written  near  a  page  to  describe  a  battle 
which  could  not  have  lasted  live  minutes.  Mother's  cart  was  drawn 
up  at  the  side-street  whilst  she  was  victoriously  engaged  within. 
Meanwhile,  Doctor  Barnard's  chaise  had  come  to  the  front  door 
of  the  shoj),  and  he  sti'ode  tlirougli  it,  and  found  us  conquerors  in 
possession  of  both  fields.  Since  my  last  battle  with  Bevil,  we  botii 
knew  that  I  Avas  more  than  a  match  for  him.  "In  the  King's 
name,  I  charge  you  drop  your  daggers,"  as  the  man  says  in  the 
play.  Our  wars  were  over  on  the  ajjpearance  of  the  man  of  pea(;e. 
Mother  left  oft"  plying  the  horsewhii)  o\ev  Rudge ;  Miss  Sukey  came 
out  from  under  the  table ;  Mr.  Bevil  rose,  and  slunk  off  to  wash  his 
bleeding  face ;  and  when  the  wretched  Rudge  Avhimpered  out  that 
he  Avould  have  the  law  for  this  assault,  the  Doctor  sternly  said, 
"  You  were  three  to  one  during  part  of  the  battle,  three  to  two 
afterwards,  and  after  your  testimony  to-day,  you  perjured  old  mis- 
creant, do  you  suppose  any  magistrate  will  believe  you  1 " 

No.  Nobody  did  believe  them.  A  punishment  fell  on  these 
bad  people.  I  don't  know  who  gave  the  name,  but  Rudge  and  his 
daughter  were  called  Ananias  and  Sapphira  in  Rye ;  and  from  that 
day  the  old  man's  affairs  seemed  to  turn  to  the  bad.  When  our 
boys  of  Pocock's  met  the  grocer,  his  daughter,  or  his  apprentice, 
the  little  miscreants  would  cry  out,  "Who  put  the  money  in 
Denny's  box  ? "  "  Who  bore  false  witness  against  his  neigh- 
bour 1 "  "  Kiss  the  book,  Sukey  my  dear,  and  tell  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  do  you  hear  1 "  They  had 
a  dreadful  life,  that  poor  grocer's  family.  As  for  that  rogue  Tom 
Parrot,  he  comes  into  the  shop  one  market-day  when  the  place  was 
full,  and  asks  for  a  penn'orth  of  sugar-candy,  in  x'^yment  for  which 
he  offers  a  penny  to  old  Rudge  sitting  at  his  books  behind  his  high 
desk.  "  It's  a  good  bit  of  money,"  says  Tom  (as  bold  as  the  brass 
which  he  was  tendering).  "  It  ahi't  vurrked,  Mr.  Rudge,  like 
Denny  Duval's  money  !  "  And,  no  doubt,  at  a  signal  from  the 
young  reprobate,  a  chorus  of  boys  posted  outside  began  to  sing, 
"  Ananias,  Ananias  !     He  pretends  to  be  so  pious  !     Ananias  and 

Saphia "     Well,   well,  tlie   Saiihia  of  these  young  wags   was 

made  to  rhyme  incorrectly  with  a  word  beginning  with  L.  Nor 
was  this  the  only  jjunishment  which  befell  the  unhappy  Rudge  : 
Mrs,  Wing  and  several  of  his  chief  patrons  took  away  their  custom 
from  him  and  dealt  henceforth  with  the  oi)position  grocer.  N(jt 
long  after  my  affair,  Miss  Sukey  married  the  toothless  apprentice, 
who  got  a  bad  bargain  with  her,  sweetheart  or  wife.     I  shall  have 


536  DENIS    DUVAL 

to  tell  presently  what  a  penalty  they  (and  some  others)  had  to  pay 
for  their  wickedness ;  aii<l  of  an  act  of  contrition  on  poor  Miss 
Sukey's  part,  whom,  I  am  sure,  I  heartily  forgive.  Then  was  cleared 
up  that  mystery  (which  I  could  not  understand,  that  Doctor  Barnard 
could  not,  or  would  not)  of  the  persecutions  directed  against  a  humble 
lad,  who  never,  except  in  self-defence,  did  liarm  to  any  mortal, 

I  shouldered  the  trunks,  causes  of  the  late  lamentable  war,  and 
put  them  into  mother's  cart,  into  which  I  was  about  to  mount,  but 
the  shrewd  old  lady  would  not  let  me  take  a  place  beside  her.  "  I 
can  drive  well  enough.  Go  thou  in  the  chaise  with  the  Doctor. 
He  can  talk  to  thee  better,  my  son,  than  an  ignorant  woman  like 
me.  Neighbour  Jephson  told  me  how  the  good  gentleman  stood 
by  thee  in  the  justice-court.  If  ever  I  or  mine  can  do  anythiag 
to  repay  him,  he  may  command  me.  Houp,  Schimmel !  Fort ! 
Shalt  soon  be  to  house  !  "  And  with  this  she  was  off  with  my  bag 
and  baggage,  as  the  night  was  beginning  to  fall. 

I  went  out  of  the  Rudges'  house,  into  which  I  have  never 
since  set  foot.  I  took  my  place  in  the  chaise  by  my  kind  Doctor 
Barnard.  We  passed  through  Winchelsea  gate,  and  dipped  down 
into  the  marshy  plain  beyond,  with  bright  glimpses  of  the  Channel 
shining  beside  us,  and  the  stars  glittering  overhead.  We  talked  of 
the  affair  of  the  day,  of  course — the  affair  most  interesting,  that  is, 
to  me,  who  could  think  of  nothing  but  magistrates,  and  committals, 
and  acquittals.  The  Doctor  repeated  his  firm  conviction  that  there 
was  a  great  smuggling  conspiracy  all  along  the  coast  and  neigh- 
bourhood. Master  Rudge  was  a  member  of  the  fraternity  (which, 
indeed,  I  knew,  having  been  out  with  his  people  once  or  twice,  as 
I  have  told,  to  my  shame).  "  Perhaps  there  were  other  people  of 
my  acquaintance  who  belonged  to  the  same  society?"  the  Doctor 
said  drily.  "Gee  up,  Daisy!  There  were  other  people  of  my 
acquaintance,  who  were  to  be  found  at  Winchelsea  as  well  as  at 
Rye.  Your  precious  one-eyed  enemy  is  in  it ;  so,  I  have  no  doubt, 
is  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  la  Motte;  so  is— can  you  guess  the 
name  of  any  one  besides,  Denny  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  said  sadly;  I  knew  my  own  grandfather  was 
engaged  in  that  traffic.  "  But  if— if  others  are,  I  promise  you,  on 
my  honour,  I  never  will  embark  in  it,"  I  added. 

"  'Twill  be  more  dangerous  now  than  it  has  been.  There  will 
be  obstacles  to  crossing  the  Channel  which  the  contraband  gentle- 
men have  not  known  for  some  time  past.  Have  you  not  heard 
the  news  1 " 

"  What  news  ? "  Indeed  I  had  thought  of  none  but  my  own 
affairs.  A  post  had  come  in  that  very  evening  from  London, 
bringing  intelligence  of  no  little  importance  even  to  poor  me,  as  it 


THE    LAST    OF    MY    SCHOOLDAYS  537 

turned  out.  And  the  news  w:is  that  His  Majesty  the  King,  having 
been  informed  that  a  treaty  of  amity  and  commerce  had  been 
signed  between  the  Court  of  France  and  certain  persons  employed 
by  His  Majesty's  revolted  subjects  in  North  America,  "has  judged 
it  necessary  to  send  orders  to  his  Ambassador  to  withdraw  from  the 
French  Court,  .  .  .  and  relying  with  the  firmest  confidence  upon 
the  zealous  and  affectionate  support  of  his  faithful  people,  he  is 
determined  to  prepare  to  exert,  if  it  sliould  be  necessary,  all  the 
forces  and  resources  of  his  kingdoms,  which  he  trusts  will  be 
adequate  to  repel  every  insult  and  attack,  and  to  maintain  and 
uphold  the  power  and  reputation  of  this  country." 

So  as  I  was  coming  out  of  Rye  court-house,  thinking  of  nothing 
but  my  enemies,  and  my  trials,  and  my  triumphs,  post-boys  were 
galloping  all  over  the  land  to  announce  that  we  were  at  war  with 
France.  One  of  them,  as  we  made  our  way  home,  clattered  i)ast 
us  with  his  twanging  horn,  crying  his  news  of  war  with  France. 
As  we  wound  along  the  plain,  we  could  see  the  French  lights  across 
the  Channel.  My  life  has  lasted  for  fifty  years  since  then,  and 
scarcely  ever  since,  but  for  very  very  brief  intervals,  has  that  bale- 
ful war-light  ceased  to  burn. 

The  messenger  who  bore  this  important  news  arrived  after  we 
left  Rye,  but  riding  at  a  nuich  quicker  pace  than  that  which  our 
Doctor's  nag  practised,  overtook  us  ere  we  had  reached  our  own  town 
of  Winchelsea.  All  our  town  was  alive  with  the  news  in  half-an-hour; 
and  in  the  market-place,  the  public-houses,  and  from  house  to  house, 
people  assembled  and  talked.  So  we  were  at  war  again  with  our 
neighbours  across  the  Channel,  as  well  as  with  our  rebellious 
children  in  America ;  and  the  rebellious  children  were  having  the 
better  of  the  parent  at  this  time.  We  boys  at  Pocock's  had  fought 
the  war  stoutly  and  with  great  elation  at  first.  Over  our  maps  we 
had  pursued  the  rebels,  and  beaten  them  in  repeated  encounters. 
We  routed  them  on  Long  Island.  We  conquered  them  at  Bi-andy- 
wine.  We  vanquished  them  gloriously  at  Bunker's  Hill.  We 
marched  triumphantly  into  Philadelphia  with  Howe.  We  were 
quite  bewildered  when  we  had  to  surrender  with  General  Burgoyne 
at  Saratoga ;  being,  somehow,  not  accustomed  to  hear  of  British 
arnues  surrendering,  and  British  valour  being  beat.  "We  had  a 
half-holiday  for  Long  Lsland,"  says  Tom  Parrot,  sitting  next  to  me 
in  school.  "  I  suppose  wc  shall  be  flogged  all  round  for  Saratoga." 
As  for  those  Frenchmen,  we  knew  of  tlieir  treason  for  a  long  time 
past,  and  were  gathering  up  wrath  against  them.  Protestant 
Frenchmen,  it  was  agreed,  were  of  a  different  sort ;  and  I  think  the 
banished  Huguenots  of  France  have  not  been  unv/orthy  subjects  of 
our  new  sovereign, 


538  DENIS    DUYAL 

There  was  one  dear  little  Frenchwoman  in  Winchelsea  who  1 
own  was  a  sad  rebel.  Wlien  Mrs.  Barnard,  talking  about  the  w.ar, 
turned  round  to  Asjnes  and  said,  "  Agnes,  my  child,  on  what  side 
are  you?"  Mademoiselle  de  Barr  blushed  very  red,  and  said,  "I  am 
a  French  girl,  and  I  am  of  tlie  side  of  my  country.  Vive  la  France  ! 
vive  le  Roi !  " 

"  Oh,  Agnes !  oh,  you  perverted,  ungrateful,  little,  little 
monster!"  cries  Mrs.  Barnard,  beginning  to  weep. 

But  the  Doctor,  far  from  being  angry,  smiled  and  looked 
pleased ;  and  making  Agnes  a  mock  reverence,  he  said,  "  Made- 
moiselle de  Saverne,  I  tliink  a  little  Frenchwoman  should  be  for 
France  ;  and  here  is  the  tray,  and  we  won't  fight  until  after  supper." 
And  as  he  spoke  that  niglit  the  prayer  appointed  by  his  Church  for 
the  time  of  war — prayed  tiiat  we  might  be  armed  with  His  defence 
who  is  the  only  Giver  of  all  victory — I  thouglit  I  never  heard  the 
good  man's  voice  more  toucliing  and  solemn. 

When  this  daily  and  nightly  ceremony  was  performed  at  the 
Rectory,  a  certain  little  person  who  belonged  to  the  Roman  Catliolic 
faith  used  to  sit  aloof,  her  spiritual  instructors  forbidding  her  to 
take  part  in  our  English  worship.  When  it  was  over,  and  the 
Doctor's  household  had  withdrawn,  Miss  Agnes  liad  a  flushed, 
almost  angry  face. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do.  Aunt  Barnard  1 "  said  the  little  rebel. 
"  If  I  pray  for  you,  I  pray  that  my  country  may  be  conquered,  and 
tliat  you  may  be  saved  and  delivered  out  of  our  hands." 

"  No,  faith,  my  child,  I  tliink  we  will  not  call  upon  thee  for 
Amen,"  says  tlie  Doctor,  patting  her  cheek. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  wisli  to  prevail  over  my 
country,"  whimpers  the  little  maid.  "  I  am  sure  I  won't  pray  that 
any  harm  may  liappen  to  you,  and  Aunt  Barnard,  and  Denny — 
never,  never ! "  And  in  a  passion  of  tears  she  buried  her  head 
against  the  breast  of  the  good  man,  and  we  were  all  not  a  little 
moved. 

Hand  in  hand  we  two  young  ones  walked  from  the  Rectory  to 
the  Priory  House,  which  was  only  too  near.  I  paused  ere  I  rang 
at  the  bell,  still  holding  her  wistful  little  hand  in  mine. 

"  Yoic  will  never  be  my  enemy,  Denny,  will  you  1 "  she  said, 
looking  up. 

"  My  dear,"  I  flxltered  out,  "  I  will  love  you  for  ever  and  ever  ! " 
I  thought  of  the  infant  whom  I  brought  home  in  my  arms  from  the 
sea-sliore,  and  once  more  my  dearest  maiden  was  lield  in  them,  and 
my  heart  throbbed  with  an  exquisite  bliss. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

/  EXTER  HIS  MAJESTY'S  NAVY 

I  PROMISE  you  there  was  no  doubt  or  hesitation  next  Sunday 
regarding  our  good  Rector's  opinions.  Ever  since  the  war  witli 
America  began,  he  had,  to  the  best  of  liis  jwwer,  exhorted  his 
people  to  be  loyal,  and  testified  to  the  autliority  of  Csesar.  "  War," 
he  taught,  "is  not  altogether  an  evil;  and  ordained  of  Heaven,  as 
our  illnesses  and  fevers  doubtless  are,  for  our  good.  It  teaches 
obedience  and  contentment  under  privations ;  it  fortifies  courage ; 
it  tests  loyalty ;  it  gives  occasion  for  showing  mercifulness  of  heart ; 
moderation  in  victory ;  endurance  and  cheerfulness  under  defeat. 
The  brave  who  do  battle  victoriously  in  their  country's  cause  leave 
a  legacy  of  honour  to  their  children.  We  English  of  the  present 
day  are  the  better  for  Crecy,  and  Agincourt,  and  Blenheim.  I  do 
not  grudge  the  Scots  their  day  of  Bannockl)urn,  nor  the  French 
their  Fontenoy.  Such  valour  proves  the  manhood  of  nations. 
When  we  have  conquered  the  American  rebellion,  as  I  have  no 
doubt  we  shall  do,  I  trust  it  will  be  found  that  these  rebellious 
children  of  ours  have  comported  themselves  in  a  manner  becoming 
our  English  race,  that  they  have  been  hardy  and  resolute,  merciful 
and  moderate.  In  that  Declaration  of  War  against  France  which 
has  just  reached  us,  and  which  interests  all  England,  and  the  men 
of  this  coast  especially,  I  have  no  more  doubt  in  my  nund  that  the 
right  is  on  our  side,  than  I  have  that  Queen  Elizabeth  had  a  right 
to  resist  the  Spanish  Armada.  In  an  hour  of  almost  equal  peril,  I 
pray  we  may  show  the  same  watchfulness,  constancy,  and  valour : 
bracing  ourselves  to  do  the  duty  before  us,  and  leaving  the  issue  to 
the  Giver  of  all  Victory." 

Ere  he  left  the  pulpit,  our  good  Rector  announced  that  he 
would  call  a  meeting  for  next  market-day  in  our  Town  Hall — a 
meeting  of  gentiy,  farmers,  and  seafaring  men,  to  devise  means  for 
the  defenc^e  of  our  coast  and  liarbours.  The  Fi'ench  might  be  upon 
us  any  day  ;  and  all  our  people  were  in  a  buzz  of  excitement. 
Volunteers  and  Fencibles  patrolling  our  shores,  and  fishermen's 
glasses  for  ever  on  the  look-out  towards  the  opposite  coast. 

We  had  a  great  meeting  in  the  Town  Hall,  and  of  the  speakers 


540  DENIS    DUVAL 

it  was  who  should  be  most  loyal  to  King  anrl  country.  Subscrip- 
tions for  a  Defence  Fund  were  straightway  set  afoot.  It  was 
determined  the  Cinque  Port  towns  sliould  raise  a  regiment  of 
Fencibles.  In  Winchelsea  alone  the  gentry  a"nd  chief  tradesmen 
agreed  to  raise  a  troop  of  volunteer  horse  to  patrol  along  the  shore 
and  communicate  with  depots  of  the  regular  military  formed  at 
Dover,  Hastings,  and  Deal.  The  fishermen  were  enrolled  to  serve 
as  coast  and  look-out  men.  From  Margate  to  Folkestone  the  coast 
was  watched  and  patrolled  :  and  privateers  were  equipped  and  sent 
to  sea  from  many  of  the  ports  along  our  line.  On  the  French  shore 
we  heard  of  similar  warlike  preparations.  The  fishermen  on  either 
coast  did  not  harm  each  other  as  yet,  though  presently  they  too 
fell  to  blows :  and  I  have  sad  reason  to  know  that  a  certain 
ancestor  of  mine  did  not  altogether  leave  off  his  relations  with  his 
French  friends. 

However,  at  the  meeting  in  the  Town  Hall,  Grandfather  came 
forward  with  a  subscription  and  a  long  speech.  He  said  that  he 
and  his  co-religionists  and  countrymen  of  France  had  now  for  near 
a  century  experienced  British  hospitality  and  freedom ;  that  wlien 
driven  from  home  by  Papist  persecution,  they  had  found  protection 
here,  and  that  now  was  the  time  for  French  Protestants  to  show 
that  they  were  grateful  and  faithful  subjects  of  King  George. 
Grandfather's  speech  was  very  warmly  received  ;  that  old  man  had 
lungs,  and  a  knack  of  speaking,  which  never  failed  him.  He  could 
spin  out  sentences  by  the  yard,  as  I  knew,  who  had  heard  him 
expound  for  half-hours  together  with  that  droning  voice  which  had 
long  ceased  (Heaven  help  me  !)  to  carry  conviction  to  the  heart  of 
Grandfather's  graceless  grandson. 

When  he  had  done,  Mr.  George  Weston,  of  the  Priory,  spoke, 
and  with  a  good  spirit  too.  (He  and  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Joe  were 
both  present,  and  seated  with  the  gentlefolk  and  magistrates  at  the 
raised  end  of  the  hall.)  Mr.  George  said  that  as  Mr.  Duval  had 
spoken  for  tlie  French  Protestants,  he,  for  his  part,  could  vouch  for 
the  loyalty  of  another  body  of  men,  the  Roman  Catholics  of  England. 
In  the  hour  of  danger  he  trusted  that  he  and  his  brethren  were  as 
good  subjects  as  any  Protestant  in  the  realm.  And  as  a  trifling 
test  of  his  loyalty — though  he  believed  his  neighbour  Duval  was  a 
richer  man  than  himself  (Grandfather  shrieked  a  "  No,  no  ! "  and 
there  was  a  roar  of  laughter  in  the  hall) — he  offered  as  a  con- 
tribution to  a  defence  fund  to  lay  down  two  guineas  for  Mr. 
Duval's  one  ! 

"I  will  give  my  guinea,  I  am  sure,"  says  Grandfather,  very 
meekly,  "  and  may  that  poor  man's  mite  be  accepted  and  useful ! " 

"  One  guinea  !  "  roars  ^Veston  ^  "  I  will  give  a  hundred  guineas  ! " 


I    ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAYY  541 

"And  I  another  hundred,"  says  liis  brother.  "We  Mill  show, 
as  Roman  Catholie  gentry  of  England,  that  we  are  not  inferior  in 
loyalty  to  our  Protestant  brethren." 

"  Put  my  fazer-in-law  Peter  Duval  down  for  one  'ondred  guinea!  " 
calls  out  my  mother,  in  her  deep  voice.  "  Put  me  down  for  twenty- 
fife  guinea,  and  my  son  Denis  for  twenty-fife  guinea !  We  have 
eaten  of  English  bread,  and  we  are  grateful,  and  we  sing  with  all 
our  hearts,  God  save  King  George  ! " 

Mother's  sjieech  Avas  received  with  great  applause.  Farmers, 
gentry,  shopkeepers,  rich  and  poor,  crowded  forward  to  offer  their 
subscription.  Before  the  meeting  broke  up,  a  very  handsome  sum 
Avas  promised  for  the  arming  and  equipment  of  the  Winchelsea 
Fencibles ;  and  old  Colonel  Evans,  who  had  been  present  at  Minden 
and  Fontenoy,  and  young  Mr.  Barlow,  who  had  lost  a  leg  at  Brandy- 
wine,  said  that  they  would  superintend  the  drilling  of  the  Winchel- 
sea Fencibles,  until  such  time  as  His  Majesty  should  send  officers 
of  his  own  to  command  the  corps.  It  was  agi-eed  that  everybody 
spoke  and  acted  with  public  spirit.  "  Let  the  French  land  !  "  was 
our  cry.  "  The  men  of  Rye,  the  men  of  Winchelsea,  the  men  of 
Hastings,  will  have  a  guard  of  honour  to  receive  them  on  the 
shore ! " 

That  the  French  intended  to  try  and  land  was  an  opinion  pretty 
general  amongst  us,  especially  when  His  Majesty's  proclamation 
came,  announcing  the  great  naval  and  military  armaments  which 
the  enemy  was  preparing.  ^Ye  had  certain  communications  with 
Boulogne,  Calais,  and  Dunkirk  still,  and  our  fishing-boats  sometimes 
went  as  far  as  Ostend.  Our  informants  brought  us  full  news  of  all 
that  was  going  on  in  those  ports ;  of  the  troops  assembled  there, 
and  Royal  French  ships  and  privateers  fitted  out.  I  was  not  much 
surprised  one  night  to  find  our  old  Boulogne  ally  Bidois  smoking 
his  pipe  with  Grandfather  in  the  kitchen,  and  regaling  himself  witli 
a  glass  of  his  own  brandy,  which  I  know  had  not  paid  unto  Caesar 
Cai'sar's  due.  The  pigeons  on  the  hill  were  making  their  journeys 
still.  Once,  when  I  went  up  to  visit  Farmer  Perreau,  I  found 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte  and  a  companion  of  his  sending  oft"  one  of 
these  birds,  and  La  Motte's  friend  said  sulkily,  in  German,  "  Wliat 
does  the  little  Spitzhuhe  do  here?"  "  Yersteht  vielleicht  Deutsch," 
murmured  La  Motte  hurriedly,  and  turned  round  to  me  with  a 
grin  of  welcome,  and  asked  news  of  Grandfather  and  my  mother. 

This  ally  of  the  Clievalier's  was  a  Lieutenant  Liitterloh,  who 
had  served  in  America  in  one  of  the  Hessian  regiments  on  our  side, 
and  who  was  now  pretty  often  in  Winchelsea,  where  he  talked 
magnificently  about  war  and  his  own  achievements,  both  on  tlie 
Continent  and  in  our  American  provinces.     He  lived  near  Canter- 


542  DENIS    DUVAL 

bury  as  I  heard.  I  guessed,  of  course,  that  he  was  one  of  the 
"  Mackerel "  party,  and  engaged  in  smuggling,  like  La  Motte,  the 
Westons,  and  my  graceless  (jld  grandfather  and  his  ally,  Mr.  Rudge, 
of  Rye.  I  shall  have  presently  to  tell  how  bitterly  Monsieur  de  la 
Motte  had  afterwards  to  rue  his  acquaintance  witli  this  German. 

Knowing  the  Chevalier's  intimacy  with  the  gentlemen  connected 
with  the  Mackerel  fishery,  I  had  little  cause  to  be  surprised  at 
seeing  him  and  tlie  German  captain  together ;  though  a  circiunstance 
now  arose,  which  might  have  induced  me  to  suppose  him  engaged  in 
practices  yet  more  lawless  and  dangerous  than  smuggling.  I  was 
walking  up  to  tlie  hill — must  I  let  slip  the  whole  truth,  madame, 
in  my  memoirs  1  Well,  it  never  did  or  will  hurt  anybody ;  and,  as 
it  only  concerns  you  and  me,  may  be  told  without  fear.  I  frequently, 
I  say,  walked  up  the  hill  to  look  at  these  pigeons,  for  a  certain 
young  person  was  a  great  lover  of  pigeons  too,  and  occasionally 
would  come  to  see  Farmer  Perreau's  columbarium.  Did  I  love  the 
sight  of  this  dear  white  dove  more  than  any  other  1  Did  it  come 
sometimes  fluttering  to  my  heart  ?  Ah  !  the  old  blood  throbs  there 
with  the  mere  recollection.  I  feel — shall  we  say  liow  many  years 
younger,  my  dear  ?  In  fine,  those  little  walks  to  the  pigeon-house 
are  among  the  sweetest  of  all  our  stores  of  memories, 

I  was  coming  away,  then,  once  from  this  house  of  billing  and 
cooing,  when  I  chanced  to  espy  an  old  schoolmate,  Thomas  Measom 
by  name,  who  was  exceedingly  proud  of  his  new  uniform  as  a  private 
of  our  regiment  of  Winchelsea  Fencibles,  was  never  tired  of  wearing 
it,  and  always  walked  out  with  his  firelock  over  his  shoulder.  As 
I  came  up  to  Tom,  he  had  just  discharged  his  piece,  and  hit  his 
bird  too.  One  of  Farmer  Perreau's  pigeons  lay  dead  at  Tom's  feet 
— one  of  the  carrier  pigeons,  and  the  young  fellow  was  rather  scared 
at  what  he  had  done,  especially  when  he  saw  a  little  piece  of  paper 
tied  under  the  wing  of  the  slain  bird. 

He  could  not  read  the  message,  which  was  written  in  our  German 
handwriting,  and  was  only  in  three  lines,  which  I  was  better  able 
to  decipher  than  Tom.  I  supposed  at  first  that  the  message  had  to 
do  with  the  smuggling  business,  in  which  so  many  of  our  friends 
were  engaged,  and  Measom  walked  off"  rather  hurriedly,  being  by  no 
means  anxious  to  fall  into  the  farmer's  hands,  who  would  be  but  ill 
pleased  at  having  one  of  his  birds  killed. 

I  put  the  paper  in  my  pocket,  not  telling  Tom  what  I  thought 
about  the  matter :  but  I  did  have  a  thought,  and  determined  to 
converse  witli  my  dear  Doctor  Barnard  regarding  it.  I  asked  to 
see  him  at  the  Rectory,  and  there  read  to  him  the  contents  of  the 
paper  whirth  the  poor  messenger  was  bearing  when  Tom's  ball  brought 
him  down. 


I   ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  543 

My  good  Doctor  was  not  a  little  excited  and  pleased  when  I 
interpreted  the  jiigeon's  message  to  him,  and  especially  praif-ed  me 
for  ray  reticence  with  Tom  upon  the  subject.  "  It  may  be  a  mare's 
nest  Ave  have  discovered,  Denny,  my  boy,"  says  the  Doctor ;  "  it 
may  be  a  matter  of  importance.  I  will  see  Colonel  Evans  on  this 
subje(;t  to-niglit."  We  went  off  to  Mr.  Evans's  lodgings  :  he  was 
the  old  officer  who  had  fought  under  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and 
was,  like  the  Doctor,  a  justice  of  peace  for  our  county.  I  translated 
for  the  Colonel  the  paper,  which  was  to  the  following  effect : — 

[Left  blank  by  Mr.  Thackeray.] 

Mr.  Evans  looked  at  a  paper  before  him,  containing  an  authorised 
list  of  the  troops  at  the  various  Cin(jue  Port  stations,  and  found  the 
])Oor  pigeon's  information  quite  correct.  "  Was  this  the  Chevalier's 
writing?"  the  gentleman  asked.  No,  I  did  not  think  it  was 
Monsieur  de  la  Motte's  handwriting.  Then  I  mentioned  the  other 
German  in  whose  company  I  had  seen  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  :  the 
Monsieur  Liitterloh  whom  Mr.  Evans  said  he  knew  quite  well. 
"  If  Liitterloh  is  engaged  in  the  business,"  said  Mr.  Evans,  "  Me 
shall  know  more  about  it ; "  and  he  whispered  something  to  Doctor 
Barnard.  Meanwhile  he  praised  me  exceedingly  for  my  caution, 
enjoined  me  to  say  notliing  regarding  the  matter,  and  to  tell  my 
comrade  to  hold  his  tongue. 

As  for  Tom  Measom  he  was  less  cautious.  Tom  talked  about 
his  adventures  to  one  or  two  cronies ;  and  to  his  parents,  who  were 
tradesmen  like  my  own.  They  occupied  a  snug  house  in  Winchelse?, 
with  a  garden  and  a  good  paddock.  One  day  their  horse  was  found 
dead  in  the  stable.  Another  day  their  cow  burst  and  died.  There 
used  to  be  strange  acts  of  revenge  per2)etrated  in  those  days;  and 
farmers,  tradesmen,  or  gentry,  who  rendered  themsehcs  obnoxious 
to  certain  parties,  had  often  to  rue  the  enmity  which  they  pr(  - 
voked.  That  my  unhappy  old  grandfather  was,  and  remained  in 
the  smugglers'  league,  I  fear  is  a  fact  which  I  can't  deny  or  palliate. 
He'paid  a  heavy  penalty  to  be  sure,  but  my  narrative  is  not  advanced 
far  enough  to  allow  of  my  telling  how  the  old  man  was  visited  for 
liis  sins. 

There  came  to  visit  our  Winchelsea  magistrates  Captain  Pearson, 
of  the  Serapis  frigate,  then  in  the  Downs :  and  I  remembered 
this  gentleman,  having  seen  him  at  the  house  of  my  kind  patron. 
Sir  Peter  Denis,  in  London.  Mr.  Pearson  also  recollected  me  as 
the  little  boy  who  had  shot  the  highwayman  ;  and  was  much 
interested  when  he  heard  of  the  carrier  pigeon,  and  the  news  whidi 


544  DENIS    DUVAL 

he  bore.  It  appeared  that  he,  as  well  as  Colonel  Evans,  was 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Liitterloh.  "  You  are  a  good  lad,"  the 
Captain  said;  "but  we  know,"  said  the  Captain,  "all  the  news 
those  birds  carry." 

All  this  time  our  whole  coast  was  alarmed,  and  hourly  expectant 
of  a  French  invasion.  The  French  fleet  was  said  to  outnumber 
ours  in  the  Channel :  the  French  army,  we  knew,  was  enormously 
superior  to  our  own.  I  can  remember  the  terror  and  the  excite- 
ment ;  the  panic  of  some,  the  bi-aggart  behaviour  of  others ;  and 
especially  I  recall  the  way  in  Avhich  our  church  was  cleared  one 
Sunday,  by  a  rumour  which  ran  through  the  pews,  that  the  French 
were  actually  landed.  How  the  people  rushed  away  from  the 
building,  and  some  of  them  whom  I  remember  the  loudest  amongst 
the  braggarts,  and  singing  their  "  Come  if  you  dare ! "  Mother 
and  I  in  our  pew,  and  Captain  Pearson  in  the  Rector's,  were  the 
only  people  who  sat  out  the  sermon,  of  which  Doctor  Barnard 
would  not  abridge  a  line,  and  which,  I  own,  I  thought  was  ex- 
tremely tantalising  and  provoking.  He  gave  the  blessing  with 
more  than  ordinary  slowness  and  solemnity ;  and  had  to  open  his 
own  pulpit-door  and  stalk  down  the  steps  without  the  accompani- 
ment of  his  usual  escort,  the  clerk,  who  had  skipped  out  of  his 
desk,  and  run  away  like  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  Doctor 
B  irnard  had  me  home  to  dinner  at  the  Rectory  ;  my  good  mother 
l)3ing  much  too  shrewd  to  be  jealous  of  this  kindness  shown  to 
me  and  not  to  her.  Wlien  she  waiteil  upon  Mrs.  Barnard  with 
her  basket  of  laces  and  perfumeries.  Mother  stooil  as  became  her 
station  as  a  tradeswoman.  "  For  thee,  my  son,  'tis  different,"  she 
said.  "  I  will  have  thee  be  a  gentleman."  And  faith,  I  hope  I 
have  done  the  best  of  my  humble  endeavour  to  fulfil  the  good 
laily's  wish. 

The  war,  the  probable  descent  of  the  French,  and  the  means 
of  resisting  the  invasion,  of  (bourse  formed  the  subject  of  the  gentle- 
men's conversation ;  and  thougli  I  did  not  understand  all  that 
passed,  I  was  made  to  comprehend  subsequently,  and  may  as  well 
mention  facts  here  which  only  came  to  be  explained  to  me  later. 
The  pigeons  took  over  certain  information  to  France,  in  return  for 
that  which  they  brought.  By  these  and  other  messengers  our 
Government  was  kept  quite  well  instructed  as  to  the  designs  and 
preparations  of  the  enemy,  and  I  remember  how  it  was  stated  that 
His  Majesty  had  occult  correspondents  of  his  own  in  France,  whose 
information  was  of  surprising  accuracy.  Master  Liitterloh  dabbled 
in  the  information  line.  He  had  been  a  soldier  in  America,  a 
recruiting-erimp  here,  and  I  know  not  what  besides  :  but  the  in- 
formation he  gave  was  given  under  the  authority  of  his  employers, 


I    ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  545 

to  whom  in  return  he  communicated  the  information  he  received 
from  France.  Tlie  worthy  gentleman  Avas,  in  fact,  a  spy  by  trade ; 
and  though  he  was  not  born  to  be  lianged,  came  by  an  awful  pay- 
ment for  his  treachery,  as  I  shall  have  to  tell  in  due  time.  As 
for  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  the  gentlemen  were  inclined  to  think 
that  his  occupation  was  smuggling,  not  treason,  and  in  that  business 
the  Chevalier  was  allied  with  scores,  nay  hundreds,  of  people  round 
about  him.  One  I  knew,  my  pious  grand])apa :  other  two  lived 
at  the  Priory,  and  I  could  count  many  more  even  in  our  small 
town,  namely,  all  the  Mackerel  men  to  whom  I  had  been  sent  on 
the  night  of  ])Oor  Madame  de  Saverne's  funeral. 

Captain  Pearson  shook  me  by  the  hand  very  warmly  when  I 
rose  to  go  home,  and  I  saw,  by  the  way  in  which  the  good  Doctor 
regarded  me,  that  he  was  meditating  some  sj)ecial  kindness  in  my 
behalf  It  came  very  soon,  and  at  a  moment  when  I  was  plunged 
in  the  very  dismalest  depths  of  despaii'.  My  dear  little  Agnes, 
though  a  boarder  at  the  house  of  those  odious  Westons,  had  leave 
given  to  her  to  visit  Mrs.  Barnard  ;  and  that  kind  lady  never  failed 
to  give  me  some  signal  by  which  I  knew  that  my  little  SAveetheart 
was  at  the  Rectory.  One  day  the  message  would  be,  "  The  Rector 
wants  back  his  volume  of  the  'Arabian  Nights,'  and  Denis  had 
better  bring  it."  Another  time,  my  dearest  Mrs.  Barnard  would 
write  on  a  card,  "  You  may  come  to  tea,  if  you  have  done  your 
mathematics  well,"  or  "You  may  have  a  French  lesson,"  and  so 
forth — and  there,  sure  enough,  would  be  my  sweet  little  tutoress. 
How  old,  my  dear,  was  Juliet  when  she  and  young  Capulet  began 
their  loves  1  My  sweetheart  had  not  done  playing  with  dolls  when 
our  little  passion  began  to  bud  :  and  the  sweet  talisman  of  innocence 
I  wore  in  my  heart  hath  never  left  me  through  life,  and  shielded 
me  from  many  a  temptation. 

Shall  I  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  1  We  young  hypocrites  used 
to  write  eacli  other  little  notes,  and  jjop  them  in  certain  cunning 
corners  known  to  us  two.  Juliet  used  to  write  in  a  great  round 
hand  in  French  ;  Romeo  replied,  I  daresay,  with  doubtful  spelling. 

We  had  devised  sundry  queer  recejitacles  where  our  letters  lay 
paste  restante.  There  was  the  china  pot-pourri  jar  on  the  Japan 
cabinet  in  the  drawing-room.  There,  into  the  midst  of  the  roses 
and  spices,  two  cunning  young  people  used  to  thrust  their  hands, 
and  stir  about  spice  and  rose-leaves,  initil  they  lighted  upon  a  little 
bit  of  fjlded  pa])er  more  fragrant  and  precious  than  all  your  flowers 
and  cloves.  Then  in  the  hall  we  had  a  famous  post-office,  namely, 
the  barrel  of  tin;  great  blunderbuss  over  the  mantelpiece,  from  which 
hung  a  ticket  on  which  "loaded"  was  written,  only  I  knew  better, 
having  helped  Martin,  the  Doctor's  man,  to  clean  the  gun.     Then 

35 


546  DENIS    DUVAL 

in  the  churchyard  under  the  wing  of  the  left  cherub  on  Sir  Jaspet 
Billing's  tomb,  there  was  a  certain  hole  in  which  we  put  little  scraps 
of  paper  written  in  a  cipher  devised  by  ourselves,  and  on  these 
scraps  of  paper  we  wrote  : — well,  can  you  guess  what  1  We  wrote 
the  old  song  which  young  people  have  sung  ever  since  singing  began. 
We  wrote  "Amo,  anias,"  &c.,  in  our  childish  handwriting.  Ah! 
thanks  be  to  Heaven,  though  the  hands  tremble  a  little  now,  they 
write  the  words  still !  My  dear,  the  last  time  I  was  in  Winchelsea, 
I  went  and  looked  at  Sir  Jasper's  tomb,  and  at  the  hole  under 
the  cherub's  wing;  there  wiis  only  a  little  mould  and  moss  there. 
Mrs.  Barnard  found  and  read  one  or  more  of  these  letters,  as  the 
dear  lady  told  me  afterwards,  but  there  was  no  harm  in  them ;  and 
when  the  Doctor  put  on  his  (/rand  se'rieux  (as  to  be  sure  he  had  a 
right  to  do),  and  was  for  giving  the  culprits  a  scolding,  his  wife 
reminded  him  of  a  time  when  he  was  captain  of  Harrow  school, 
and  found  time  to  write  other  exercises  than  Greek  and  Latin  to  a 
young  lady  who  lived  in  the  village.  Of  these  matters,  I  say,  she 
told  me  in  later  days ;  in  all  days,  after  our  acquaintance  began, 
she  was  my  truest  friend  and  protectress. 

But  this  dearest  and  happiest  season  of  my  life  (for  so  I  think 
it,  though  I  am  at  this  moment  happy,  most  happy,  and  thankful) 
was  to  come  to  an  abrupt  ending,  and  poor  Humpty  Dumpty  having 
climbed  the  wall  of  bliss,  was  to  have  a  great  and  sudden  fall, 
wliich,  for  a  while,  perfectly  crushed  and  bewildered  him.  I  have 
said  what  harm  came  to  my  companion  Tom  Measom,  for  meddling 
in  Monsieur  Liitterloh's  affairs  and  talking  of  them.  Now  there 
Avere  two  who  knew  Meinherr's  secret,  Tom  Measom,  namely,  and 
Denis  Duval ;  and  though  Denis  held  his  tongue  about  the  matter, 
except  in  conversing  with  the  Rector  and  Captain  Pearson,  Liitterloh 
came  to  know  that  I  had  read  and  explained  the  pigeon-despatch  of 
which  Measom  had  shot  the  bearer;  and,  indeed,  it  was  Captain 
Pearson  himself,  with  whom  the  German  had  sundry  private  deal- 
ings, who  Avas  Liitterloh's  informer.  Liitterloh's  rage,  and  that  of 
his  accomplice,  against  me,  when  they  learned  the  unlucky  part  I 
had  had  in  the  discovery,  were  still  greater  than  their  wrath  against 
Measom.  The  Chevalier  de  la  Motte,  who  had  once  been  neutral, 
and  even  kind  to  me,  was  confirmed  in  a  steady  hatred  against  me, 
and  held  me  as  an  enemy  whom  he  was  determined  to  get  out  of 
his  way.  And  hence  came  that  catastrophe  which  precipitated 
Hmnpty  Dumpty  Duval,  Esquire,  off  the  wall  from  which  he  was 
gazing  at  his  beloved,  as  she  disjiorted  in  her  garden  below. 

One  evening — shall  I  ever  forget  that  evening?  It  was 
Friday,  [Left  blank  by  Mr.  Thackeray] — after  my  little  maiden  had 
been  taking  tea  with  Mrs,   Barnard,   I  had  leave  to  escort  her 


I   ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  547 

to  her  home  at  Mr.  \yeston's  at  the  Priory,  which  is  not  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  Rectory  door.  All  the  evening  the  com])any  had 
been  talking  about  battle  and  danger,  and  invasion,  and  the  war 
news  from  France  and  America  ;  and  my  little  maiden  sat  silent, 
with  her  great  eyes  looking  at  one  speaker,  and  another,  and 
stitching  at  her  sampler.  At  length  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  of 
nine,  when  Miss  Agnes  must  return  to  her  guardian.  I  had  the 
honour  to  serve  as  her  escort,  and  would  have  wished  tlie  journey 
to  be  ten  times  as  long  as  that  brief  one  between  the  two  houses. 
"  Good-night,  Agnes  !  "  "  Good-night,  Denis  !  On  Sunday  I  shall 
see  you  ! "  We  whisper  one  little  minute  under  the  stars ;  the 
little  hand  lingers  in  mine  with  a  soft  pressure ;  we  hear  the 
servants'  footsteps  over  the  marble  floor  within,  and  I  am  gone. 
Somehow,  at  night  and  at  morning,  at  lessons  and  play,  I  was 
always  thinking  about  this  little  maid.  ^ 

"  I  shall  see  you  on  Sunday,"  and  this  was  Friday  !  Even 
that  interval  seemed  long  to  me.  Little  did  either  of  us  know 
what  a  long  separation  was  liefore  us,  and  what  strange  changes, 
dangers,  adventures,  I  was  to  undergo  ere  I  again  should  press 
that  dearest  hand. 

The  gate  closed  on  her,  and  I  walked  away  by  the  church-wall, 
and  towards  my  own  home.  I  was  thinking  of  that  happy,  that 
unforgotten  night  of  my  childhood,  when  I  had  been  the  means  of 
rescuing  the  dearest  little  maiden  from  an  awful  death  ;  how,  since 
then,  I  had  cherished  her  with  my  love  (jf  love  ;  and  what  a  blessing 
she  had  been  to  my  young  life.  For  many  years  she  was  its  only 
cheerer  and  companion.  At  home  I  had  food  and  shelter,  and, 
from  Mother  at  least,  kindness,  but  no  society  :  it  was  not  until 
I  became  a  familiar  of  the  good  Doctor's  roof  that  I  knew  friend- 
ship and  kind  companionshijo.  What  gratitude  ought  I  not  to 
feel  for  a  boon  so  precious  as  there  was  conferred  on  me"?  Ah, 
I  vowed,  I  prayed,  that  I  miglit  make  myself  worthy  of  such 
friends  :  and  so  was  sauntering  homewards,  lost  in  these  happy 
thoughts,  when — when  something  occurred  which  at  once  decided 
the  whole  course  of  my  after-life. 

This  something  was  a  blow  with  a  bludgeon  across  my  ear  and 
temple  which  sent  me  to  the  ground  utterly  insensible.  I  remember 
half-a-dozen  men  darkling  in  an  alley  by  which  I  had  to  pass,  then 
a  scuffle  and  an  oath  or  two,  and  a  voice  crying,  "  Give  it  him, 
curse  him  ! "  and  then  I  was  down  on  tlie  pavement  as  flat  and 
lifeless  as  the  flags  on  which  I  lay.  When  I  woke  up,  I  was 
almost  blinded  with  blood ;  I  was  in  a  covered  cart  with  a  few 
more  groaning  wretches  ;  and  when  I  uttered  a  moan,  a  brutal 
voice  growled  out  with  many  oaths  an  instant  order  to  be  silent, 


548  DENIS    DUVAL 

or  my  head  should  be  broken  again.  I  woke  up  in  a  ghastly  pain 
and  perplexity,  but  presently  fainted  onee  more.  When  I  awoke 
again  to  a  half-consciousness  I  felt  myself  being  lifted  from  the 
cart  and  carried,  and  then  flung  into  the  bows  of  a  boat,  where  I 
suppose  I  was  joined  by  the  rest  of  the  dismal  cart's  company. 
Then  some  one  came  and  washed  my  bleeding  head  with  salt-water 
(which  made  it  throb  and  ache  very  cruelly).  Then  the  man, 
whispering,  "  I'm  a  friend,"  bound  my  forehead  tight  with  a 
liandkerchief,  and  the  boat  pulled  out  to  a  brig  that  was  lying 
as  near  to  land  as  she  could  come,  and  the  same  man  who  had 
struck  and  sworn  at  me  would  have  stabbed  me  as  I  reeled  up 
the  side,  but  that  my  friend  interposed  in  my  behalf  It  was  Tom 
Hookham,  to  whose  fimily  I  had  given  the  three  guineas,  and  who 
assuredly  saved  my  life  on  that  day,  for  the  villain  who  attempted 
it  afterwards  confessed  that  he  intended  to  do  me  an  injury.  I 
was  thrust  into  the  forepeak  with  three  or  four  more  maimed  and 
groaning  wretches,  and,  the  wind  serving,  the  lugger  made  for  her 
destination,  whatever  that  might  be.  What  a  horrid  night  of  fever 
and  pain  it  was.  I  remember  I  fancied  I  Avas  carrying  Agnes  out 
of  the  water ;  I  called  out  her  name  repeatedly,  as  Tom  Hookliam 
informed  me,  who  came  with  a  lantern  and  looked  at  us  poor 
wretches  huddled  in  our  shed.  Tom  brought  me  more  water,  and 
in  pain  aud  fever  X  slept  througii  a  wretched  night. 

In  the  morning  our  tender  came  uj)  with  a  frigate  that  was 
lying  off"  a  town,  and  I  was  carried  up  the  ship's  side  on  Hookham's 
arm.  The  Captain's  boat  happened  to  pull  from  shore  at  the  very 
same  time,  and  the  Captain  ami  his  friends,  and  our  wretched  party 
of  pressed  men  with  their  captors,  thus  stood  face  to  face.  My 
wonder  and  deliglit  were  not  a  little  aroused  when  I  saw  the 
Captain  was  no  other  than  my  dear  Rector's  friend,  Captain 
Pearson.  My  face  was  bound  up,  and  so  pale  and  bloody  as  to 
be  scarcely  recognisable.  "  So,  my  man,"  he  said,  rather  sternly, 
"  you  have  been  for  fighting,  have  you  1  This  comes  of  resisting 
men  employed  on  his  Majesty's  service." 

"  I  never  resisted,"  I  said  ;  "  I  was  struck  from  behind.  Captain 
Pearson." 

The  Captain  looked  at  me  with  a  haughty  surprised  air.  In- 
deed a  more  disreputable-looking  lad  he  scarcely  could  see.  After 
a  moment  he  said,  "  Why,  bless  my  soul,  is  it  you,  my  boy  ?  Is 
it  young  Duval  1 " 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  said;  and  whether  from  emotion,  or  fever,  or  loss 
of  blood  and  weakness,  I  felt  my  brain  going  again,  and  once  more 
fainted  and  fell. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  found  myself  in  a  berth  in  the 


DENIS  S    VALUT. 


I    ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  549 

Serajns,  M-liere  there  happened  to  be  but  one  other  patient.  I 
had  had  fever  and  delirium  for  a  day,  during  which  it  appears  I 
was  constantly  calling  out,  "Agnes,  Agnes  !"  and  offering  to  shoot 
highwaymen.  A  very  kind  surgeon's  mate  had  charge  of  me,  and 
showed  me  much  more  attention  than  a  poor  wounded  lad  could 
liave  had  a  right  to  expect  in  my  wretched  humiliating  position. 
On  the  fifth  day  I  was  well  again,  though  still  very  weak  and  i)ale  ; 
but  not  too  weak  to  be  unable  to  go  to  the  Captain  when  he  sent 
for  me  to  his  cabin.  My  friend  the  surgeon's  mate  showed  me 
the  way. 

Captain  Pearson  was  writing  at  ids  table,  but  sent  away  his 
secretary,  and  when  the  latter  was  gone  shook  hands  with  me  very 
kindly,  and  talked  unreservedly  about  the  strange  accident  Avhich 
had  brought  me  on  board  his  ship.  His  officer  had  information,  he 
said,  "and  I  liad  information,"  the  Captain  went  on  to  say,  "that 
some  very  good  seamen  of  what  we  called  the  Mackerel  party  were 
to  be  taken  at  a  jjublic-house  in  Winchelsea,"  and  his  officer  netted 
a  half-dozen  of  them  there,  "who  will  be  nuich  better  employed" 
(says  Captain  Pearson)  "  in  serving  the  King  in  one  of  his 
Majesty's  vessels,  than  in  cheating  him  on  board  their  own.  You 
were  a  stray  fish  that  was  caught  along  with  the  rest.  I  know 
your  story.  I  have  talked  it  over  with  our  good  friends  at  the 
Rectory.  For  a  young  fellow,  you  have  managed  to  naake  yoiu-self 
some  queer  enemies  in  your  native  town ;  and  you  are  best  out  of 
it.  On  the  night  when  I  first  saw  you,  I  jjromised  our  friends  to 
take  you  as  a  first-class  volunteer.  In  due  time  you  Avill  ])ass  your 
examination,  and  he  rated  as  a  midshipman.  Stay — your  mother 
is  in  Deal.  You  can  go  ashore,  and  she  will  fit  you  out.  Here 
are  letters  for  you.  I  wrote  to  Doctor  Barnard  as  soon  as  I  found 
who  you  were." 

With  this,  I  took  leave  of  my  good  patron  and  captain,  and 
ran  off  to  read  my  two  letters.  One,  from  Mrs.  Barnard  and  the 
Doctor  conjointly,  told  how  alarmed  they  had  been  at  my  being  lost, 
until  Captain  Pearson  wrote  to  say  how  I  had  been  found.  The 
letter  from  my  good  mother  informed  me,  in  her  rough  Avay,  how 
she  was  waiting  at  the  "  Blue  Anchor  Inn  "  in  Deal,  and  would 
have  come  to  me  ;  but  my  new  comrades  would  laugh  at  a  rough 
old  woman  coming  off  in  a  shore  boat  to  look  after  lier  boy.  It 
was  better  that  I  should  go  to  her  at  Deal,  where  I  should  be  fitted 
out  in  a  way  becoming  an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  service.  To 
Deal  accordingly  I  went  by  the  next  boat ;  the  good-natured 
surgeon's  mate,  who  had  attended  me  and  taken  a  fancy  to  me, 
lending  me  a  dean  shirt,  and  covering  the  wound  on  my  head 
neatly,  so  that  it  was  scarcely  seen  under  my  black  hair.      "  Le 


550  DENIS    DUVAL 

pauvre  cher  enfant  !  coiume  il  est  pale  !  "  How  my  mother's  eyes 
kindled  with  kindness  as  she  saw  me  !  The  good  soul  insisted  on 
dressing  my  hair  with  her  own  hands,  and  tied  it  in  a  smart  queue 
with  a  bhvck  ribbon.  Then  she  took  me  off  to  a  tailor  in  the  town, 
and  provided  me  with  an  outfit  a  lord's  son  might  have  brought 
on  board.  My  uniforms  were  ready  in  a  very  short  time.  Twenty- 
four  hours  after  tliey  were  ordered  Mr.  Levy  brought  them  to  our 
inn,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  putting  them  on  ;  and  walked  on 
the  Parade,  with  my  Iiat  cocked,  my  hanger  by  my  side,  and 
Mother  on  my  arm.  Though  I  was  perfectly  well  pleased  with 
myself,  I  think  she  was  the  prouder  of  the  two.  To  one  or  two 
tradesmen  and  their  wives,  whom  she  knew,  she  gave  a  most  digni- 
fied nod  of  recognition  this  day ;  hut  passed  on  without  speaking, 
as  if  she  would  have  them  understand  that  they  ought  to  keep 
their  distance  when  she  was  in  such  fine  company.  "  Wlien  I  am 
in  the  sliop,  I  am  in  the  shop,  and  my  customers'  very  humble 
servant,"  said  she;  "but  wlien  I  am  walking  on  Deal  Parade  with 
thee,  I  am  walking  with  a  young  gentleman  in  His  Majesty's  navy. 
And  Heaven  has  blessed  us  of  late,  my  child,  and  thou  shalt  have 
the  means  of  making  as  good  a  figure  as  any  young  officer  in  the 
service."  And  she  put  such  a  great  heavy  purse  of  guineas  into  my 
pocket,  that  I  wondered  at  her  bounty.  "  Remember,  my  son," 
added  she,  "  thou  art  a  gentleman  now.  Always  respect  yourself. 
Tradespeople  are  no  conijiany  for  thee.  For  me  'tis  different.  I 
am  but  a  poor  hairdresser  and  shopkeeper."  We  supped  together 
at  the  "  Anchor,"  and  talked  about  home,  that  Avas  but  two  days 
otF,  and  yet  so  distant.  She  never  once  mentioned  my  little  maiden 
to  me,  nor  did  I  somehow  dare  to  allude  to  her.  Mother  had  pre- 
I)ared  a  nice  bedroom  for  me  at  the  inn,  to  which  she  made  me 
retire  early,  as  I  was  still  weak  and  foint  after  my  fever ;  and  when 
I  was  in  my  bed  she  came  and  knelt  down  by  it,  and  with  tears 
rolling  down  her  furrowed  face,  offered  up  a  prayer  in  her  native 
German  language,  tliat  He  who  had  been  pleased  to  succour  me 
from  perils  hitherto,  would  guard  me  for  the  future,  and  watch  over 
me  in  the  voyage  of  life  whi(^li  was  now  about  to  begin.  Now, 
as  it  is  drawing  to  its  close,  I  look  back  at  it  with  an  immense 
awe  and  thankfulness,  for  the  strange  dangers  from  which  I  have 
escaped,  the  great  blessings  I  have  enjoyed. 

I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mrs.  Barnard,  narrating  my  adventures 
as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  though,  truth  to  say,  when  I  thought  of 
home  and  a  little  Someone  there,  a  large  tear  or  two  blotted  my 
paper,  but  I  had  reason  to  be  grateful  for  the  kindness  I  had 
received,  and  was  not  a  little  elated  at  being  actually  a  gentleman, 
and  in  a  fair  way  to  be  an  officer  in  His  Majesty's  navy. 


I    ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  551 

As  I  was  strutting  on  the  Mall,  on  the  second  day  <>f  my  visit 
to  Deal,  what  should  I  see  but  my  dear  Doctor  Barnard's  well- 
known  post-chaise  nearing  us  from  the  Dover  Road.  The  Doctor 
and  his  wife  looked  with  a  smiling  surprise  at  my  altered  aj)pear- 
ance ;  and  as  they  stepped  out  of  their  chaise  at  the  inn,  the  good 
lady  fairly  put  her  arms  round  me,  and  gave  me  a  kiss.  Mothei", 
from  her  room,  saw  the  embrace,  I  suppose.  "  Thou  hast  found 
good  friends  there,  Denis,  my  son,"  she  said,  with  sadness  in  her 
deep  voice.  "  'Tis  well.  They  can  befriend  thee  better  than  I 
can.  Now  thou  art  well,  I  may  depart  in  peace.  When  thou  art 
ill,  the  old  mother  will  come  to  thee,  and  will  bless  thee  always, 
my  son."  She  insisted  upon  setting  out  on  her  return  homewards 
that  afternoon.  Slie  had  friends  at  Hythc,  Folkestone,  and  Dover 
(as  I  knew  well),  and  would  put  up  with  one  or  other  of  them. 
She  had  before  patdced  my  new  chest  with  wonderful  neatness. 
Whatever  her  feelings  might  be  at  our  parting,  she  showed  no  signs 
of  tears  or  sorrow,  but  mounted  her  little  chaise  in  the  inn  yard, 
and,  without  looking  back,  drove  away  on  her  solitary  journey. 
Tiie  landlord  of  the  "  Anchor  "  and  his  wife  bade  her  farewell,  very 
cordially  and  respectfully.  They  asked  me,  Avould  I  not  step  into 
the  bar  and  take  a  glass  of  wine  or  spirits  1  I  have  said  that  I 
never  drank  either ;  and  suspect  that  my  mother  furnished  my  host 
with  some  of  these  stores  out  of  those  fishing-boats  of  which  she 
was  owner.  "  If  I  had  an  only  son,  and  such  a  good-looking  one," 
Mrs.  Boniface  was  pleased  to  say  (can  I,  after  such  a  fine  compli- 
ment, be  so  ungrateful  as  to  forget  her  name  ?) — "  If  I  had  an  only 
son,  and  could  leave  him  as  well  otf  as  Mrs.  Duval  can  leave  you, 
/  wouldn't  send  him  to  sea  in  war-time,  that  I  wouldn't."  "  And 
though  you  don't  drink  any  wine,  some  of  your  friends  on  board 
may,"  my  landlord  added,  "  and  they  are  always  welcome  at  the 
'Blue  Anchor.'"  This  Avas  not  the  first  time  I  had  heard  that  my 
mother  was  rich.  "  If  she  be  so,"  I  said  to  my  host,  "indeed  it  is 
more  than  I  know."  On  which  he  and  his  wife  both  commended 
me  for  my  caution  ;  adding  with  a  knowing  smile,  "  We  know  more 
than  we  tell,  Mr.  Duval.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Mr.  Weston  ? 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  Monsieur  de  la  Motte  1     We  know  where 

Boulogne  is,  and   Ost "     "  Hush,  wife  ! "  here   breaks   in   my 

landlord.  "If  the  Captain  don't  wish  to  talk,  why  sliould  he] 
There  is  the  bell  ringing  from  the  '  Beid)ow '  and  your  dinner  going 
up  to  the  Doctor,  Mr.  Duval."  It  was  indeed  as  he  said,  and  I  sat 
down  in  the  company  of  my  good  friends,  bringing  a  fine  appetite  to 
their  table. 

The  Doctor  on  his  arrival  had  scut  a  messenger  to  his  friend 
Captain  Pearson,  and  whilst  we  were  at  our  meal,   tiie   Captain 


552  DENIS    DUVAL 

arrived  in  his  own  boat  from  the  ship,  and  insisted  that  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Barnard  should  take  their  dessert  in  his  cabin  on  board. 
This  procured  Mr.  Denis  Duval  the  honour  of  an  invitation,  and 
I  and  my  new  sea-chest  were  accommodated  in  the  boat  and  taken 
to  the  frigate.  My  box  was  consigned  to  the  gunner's  cabin,  Avhere 
my  hammock  was  now  slung.  After  sitting  a  short  time  at  Mr. 
Pearson's  table,  a  brother-midshipman  gave  me  a  hint  to  withdraw, 
and  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  comrades,  of  whom  there  were 
about  a  dozen  on  board  the  tSercqns.  Though  only  a  volunteer, 
I  was  taller  and  older  than  many  of  the  midshipmen.  They  knew 
who  I  was,  of  course — the  son  of  a  shopkeeper  at  Winchelsea. 
Then,  and  afterwards,  I  had  my  share  of  rough  jokes,  you  may 
be  sure;  but  I  took  them  witli  good-humour;  and  I  had  to  fight 
my  way  as  I  had  learned  to  do  at  school  before.  There  is  no 
need  to  put  down  here  the  number  of  black  eyes  and  bloody  noses 
which  I  received  and  delivered.  I  am  sure  I  bore  but  little 
malice  :  and,  thank  Heaven,  never  wronged  a  man  so  much  as  to 
be  obliged  to  hate  him  afterwards.  Certain  men  there  were  who 
hated  me :  but  they  are  gone,  and  I  am  here,  with  a  pretty  clear 
conscience,  Heaven  be  praised ;  and  little  the  worse  for  their 
enmity. 

The  first  lieutenant  of  our  ship,  Mr.  Page,  was  related  to  Mrs. 
Barnard,  and  this  kind  lady  gave  him  such  a  character  of  her  very 
grateful  luunl)le  servant,  and  narrated  my  adventures  to  him  so 
pathetically,  that  Mr.  Page  took  me  into  his  special  favour,  and 
interested  some  of  my  messmates  in  my  behalf.  The  stoiy  of 
tlie  highwayman  caused  endless  talk  and  jokes  against  me,  which 
I  took  in  good  part,  and  I  established  my  footing  among  my 
messmates  by  adopting  the  plan  I  had  followed  at  school,  and 
taking  an  early  opportunity  to  fight  a  well-known  bruiser  amongst 
our  company  of  midshipmen.  You  must  know  they  called  me 
"  Soapsuds,"  "  Powderpuff","  and  like  names,  in  consequence  of  my 
grandfather's  known  trade  of  hairdresser ;  and  one  of  my  comrades 
bantering  me  one  day,  cried,  "  I  say.  Soapsuds,  where  was  it 
you  hit  the  highwayman  ] "  "  There  !  "  said  I,  and  gave  him  a 
clean  left-handed  blow  on  his  nose,  which  nuist  have  caused  him 
to  see  a  hundred  blue  lights.  I  know  about  five  minutes  after- 
wards he  gave  me  just  such  another  blow ;  and  we  fought  it  out 
and  were  good  friends  ever  after.  What  is  this  ?  Did  I  not  vow 
as  I  was  writing  the  last  page  yesterday  that  I  would  not  say 
a  word  about  my  prowess  at  fisticuff's  ?  You  see  we  are  ever 
making  promises  to  be  good,  and  forgetting  them.  I  suppose  other 
people  can  say  as  much. 

Before  leaving  the  ship  my  kind  friends  once  more  desired  to 


I    ENTER    HIS    MAJESTY'S    NAVY  553 

see  me,  and  Mi.s.  Banianl,  putting  her  finger  to  her  lip,  took  out 
from  her  pocket  a  little  i)acket,  which  she  placed  in  my  hand.  I 
thought  she  Avas  giving  me  money,  and  felt  somehow  disappointed 
at  being  so  treated  by  her.  But  when  she  was  gone  to  shore  I 
opened  the  parcel,  and  found  a  locket  there,  and  a  little  curl 
of  glossy  black  hair.  Can  you  guess  whose?  Along  with  the 
locket  was  a  letter  in  French,  in  a  large  girlish  hand,  in  which 
the  writer  said,  that  night  and  day  she  prayed  for  her  dear  Denis. 
And  where,  think  you,  the  locket  is  now  1  where  it  has  been  for 
forty-two  years,  and  where  it  will  remain  when  a  faithful  heart  that 
beats  under  it  hath  ceased  to  throb. 

At  gunfire  our  friends  took  leave  of  the  frigate,  little  knowing 
the  fate  that  was  in  store  for  many  on  board  her.  In  three  weeks 
from  that  day  what  a  change !  The  glorious  misfortune  which 
befell  us  is  written  in  the  annals  of  our  country. 

On  the  very  evening  whilst  Captain  Pearson  was  entertaining 
his  friends  from  Winchelsea,  he  re(;eived  orders  to  sail  for  Hull,  and 
place  himself  under  the  conmiand  of  the  Admiral  there.  From  the 
Humber  we  presently  were  despatched  northward  to  Scarborough. 
There  had  been  not  a  little  excitement  along  the  whole  northern 
coast  for  some  time  i)ast,  in  consequence  of  the  appearance  of  some 
American  privateers,  who  had  ransacked  a  Scottish  nobleman's 
castle,  and  levied  contributions  from  a  Cumberland  seaport  town. 
As  M'e  were  close  in  with  Scarborough  a  boat  came  oft'  with  letters 
from  the  magistrates  of  that  place,  announcing  that  this  squadron 
had  actually  been  seen  oft"  the  coast.  The  commodore  of  this 
wandering  piratical  expedition  was  known  to  be  a  rebel  Scotchman  ; 
who  fought  with  a  rope  round  his  neck  to  be  sure.  No  doubt 
many  of  us  youngsters  vapoured  about  the  courage  with  which  we 
Avould  engage  him,  and  made  certain,  if  we  could  only  meet  with 
him,  of  seeing  him  hang  from  his  own  yard-arm.  It  was  Diis 
aliter  visum,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Pocock's ;  and  it  was  we  threw 
deuceace  too.  Traitor,  if  you  will,  was  Monsieur  John  Paul  Jones, 
afterwards  knight  of  His  Most  Christian  Majesty's  Order  of  Merit ; 
but  a  braver  traitor  never  wore  sword. 

We  had  been  sent  for  in  order  to  protect  a  fleet  of  merchantmen 
that  were  bound  to  the  Baltic,  and  were  to  sail  under  the  convoy  of 
our  shipj  and  the  Countries  of  SvarliormKih,  commanded  by  Captain 
Piercy.  And  tluis  it  came  about,  that,  after  Iteing  twenty-five  days 
in  His  Majesty's  service,  I  had  the  fortune  to  be  present  at  one  of 
the  most  severe  and  desperate  combats  that  has  been  fought  in  our 
or  any  time. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  that  story  of  the  battle  of  the  23rd 
September,  which  ended  in  our  glorious  Captain  striking  his  own 


£54  DENIS    DUVAL 

colours  to  our  superior  and  irresistible  enemy.  Sir  Richard  has 
told  the  story  of  his  disaster  in  words  nobler  than  any  I  could 
supply,  who,  though  indeed  engaged  in  that  fearful  action  in  which 
our  flag  went  down  before  a  renegade  Briton  and  his  motley  crew, 
saw  but  a  very  small  portion  of  the  battle  wliich  ended  so  fatally 
for  us.  It  did  not  commence  till  nightfall.  How  well  I  remember 
the  sound  of  the  enemy's  gun  of  which  the  shot  crashed  into  our 
side  in  reply  to  the  challenge  of  our  captain,  who  hailed  her !  Then 
came  a  broadside  from  us — the  first  I  had  ever  heard  in  battle. 


NOTES  ON  DENIS  DUVAL 


THE  readers  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  liave  now  read  the  last 
line  written  by  William  Makepeace  Thackeray.  The  story 
breaks  off  as  his  life  ended — full  of  vigour,  and  blooming 
with  new  promise  like  the  apple-trees  in  this  month  of  May  :  *  the 
only  difference  between  the  work  and  the  life  is  this,  that  the  last 
chapters  of  the  one  have  their  little  pathetical  gaps  and  breaks 
of  unfinished  effort,  the  last  chapters  of  the  other  were  fulfilled  and 
complete.  But  the  life  may  be  left  alone  ;  while  as  for  the  gaps 
and  breaks  in  his  last  pages,  nothing  that  we  can  write  is  likely 
to  add  to  their  significance.  There  they  are ;  and  the  reader's 
mind  has  already  fallen  into  them,  with  sensations  not  to  be 
improved  by  the  ordinary  commentator.  If  Mr.  Thackeray  him- 
self could  do  it,  that  would  be  another  thing.  Preacher  he  called 
himself  in  some  of  the  Roundabout  discourses  in  which  his  softer 
spirit  is  always  to  be  heard,  but  he  never  had  a  text  after  his  own 
mind  so  much  as  these  last  broken  chapters  would  give  him  now. 
There  is  the  date  of  a  certain  Friday  to  be  filled  in,  and  Time  is 
no  more.  Is  it  very  presumptuous  to  imagine  the  Roundabout 
that  Mr.  Thackeray  would  write  upon  this  unfinished  work  of 
his,  if  he  could  come  back  to  do  it  1  We  do  not  think  it  is,  or 
very  difficult  either.  What  Carlyle  calls  the  divine  gift  of  speech 
was  so  largely  his,  especially  in  his  maturer  years,  that  he  made 
clear  in  what  he  did  say  pretty  much  what  he  wmdd  say  about 
anything  that  engaged  his  thought ;  and  we  have  only  to  imagine 
a  discourse  "On  the  Two  Women  at  the  Mill,"t  to  read  off  upon 
our  minds  the  sense  of  what  Mr.  Thackeray  alone  could  have  found 
language  for. 

Vain  are  these  speculations — or  are  they  vain  ?     Not  if  we  try 
to  think  what  he  would  think  of  his  broken  labours,  considering 

*  The  last  number  of  "Denis  Duval"  ajipeared  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
of  June  1864. 

f  "Two  women  shall  be  grinding  at  the  mill,  one  shall  be  taken  and  the 
other  left." 


556  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

that  one  of  these  days  our  labours  must  be  broken  too.  Still,  there 
is  not  much  to  be  said  about  it :  and  we  pass  on  to  the  real  business 
in  hand,  which  is  to  show  as  well  as  we  may  what  "  Denis  Duval " 
would  have  been  had  its  author  lived  to  complete  his  work.  Frag- 
mentary as  it  is,  the  story  must  always  be  of  considerable  impor- 
tance, because  it  will  stand  as  a  warning  to  imperfect  critics  never 
to  be  in  haste  to  cry  of  any  intellect,  "  His  vein  is  worked  out : 
there  is  nothing  left  in  him  but  the  echoes  of  emptiness."  The 
decriers  were  never  of  any  importance,  yet  there  is  more  than  satis- 
fiiction,  there  is  sometliing  like  triumph  in  the  mind  of  every  honest 
man  of  letters  when  he  sees,  and  knows  everybody  must  see,  how  a 
genius  which  was  sometimes  said  to  have  been  guilty  of  passing 
behind  a  cloud  toward  the  evening  of  his  day,  came  out  to  shine 
with  new  splendour  before  the  day  was  done.  "  Denis  Duval  *'  is 
unfinished,  but  it  ends  that  question.  The  fiery  genius  that  blazed 
over  the  city  in  "  Vanity  Fair,"  and  passed  on  to  a  ripe  afternoon 
in  "  Esmond,"  is  not  a  whit  less  great,  it  is  only  broader,  more 
soft,  morc  mellow  and  kindlv,  as  it  sinks  too  suddenly  in  "Denis 
Duval." 

This  is  said  to  introduce  the  settlement  of  another  too  hasty 
notion  which  we  believe  to  have  been  pretty  generally  accepted : 
namely,  that  Mr.  Thackeray  took  little  pains  in  the  construction  of 
his  works.  The  trutli  is,  tliat  he  very  industriously  did  take  pains. 
We  find  that  out  when  we  inquire,  for  the  benefit  of  the  readers  of 
his  Magazine,  whether  there  is  anything  to  tell  of  his  designs  for 
"Denis  Duval."  The  answer  comes  in  the  form  of  many  most 
careful  notes,  and  memoranda  of  inquiry  into  minute  matters  of 
detail  to  make  the  story  trm.  How  many  young  novelists  are 
there  who  haven't  much  genius  to  fall  back  upon,  who  yet,  if  they 
desired  to  set  their  hero  down  in  Winchelsea  a  hundred  years  ago 
for  instance,  would  take  tlie  trouble  to  learn  how  the  town  was 
built,  and  what  gate  led  to  Rye  (if  the  hero  happened  to  have  any 
dealings  with  that  place),  and  who  were  its  local  magnates,  and 
how  it  was  governed?  And  yet  this  is  what  Mr.  Thackeray  did, 
though  his  investigation  added  not  twenty  lin&s  to  the  story  and 
no  "  interest "  whatever :  it  was  simply  so  much  conscientious 
eff'ort  to  keep  as  near  truth  in  feigning  as  he  could.  That  Winchel- 
sea had  three  gates,  "Newgate  on  S.W.,  Landgate  on  N.E.,  Strand- 
gate  {leading  to  Rye)  on  S.E.  ;"  that  "the  government  was  vested 
in  a  mayor  and  twelve  jurats,  jointly ; "  that  "  it  sends  canopy- 
bearers  on  occasion  of  a  coronation,"  &c.  &c.  &c.,  all  is  duly 
entered  in  a  note-book  with  reference  to  authorities.  And  so  about 
the  refugees  at  Rye,  and  the  French  Reformed  Church  there : 
nothing  is  written  that  history  cannot  vouch  for.     The  neat  and 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL  557 

orderly  way  in  which  tlie  notes  are  set  down  is  also  remarkable. 
Each  has  its  heading,  as  thus  : — 

^^  Refugees  at  Rye. — At  Rye  is  a  small  settlement  of  French 
refugees,  who  are  for  the  most  part  fishermen,  and  have  a  minister 
of  their  own. 

^^  French  Reformed  Church. — Wherever  there  is  a  sufficient 
number  of  feithful  there  is  a  chureli.  '  The  pastor  is  admitted  to 
hia  office  by  the  provincial  synod,  or  the  colloquy,  provided  it  be 
composed  of  seven  pastors  at  least.  Pastors  are  seconded  in  their 
duties  by  laymen,  who  take  the  title  of  Ancients,  Elders,  and 
Deacons  precentors.  The  union  of  Pastors,  Deacons,  and  Elders 
forms  a  consistory." 

Of  course  there  is  no  considerable  merit  in  care  like  this,  but 
it  is  a  merit  which  the  author  of  "  Denis  Duval "  is  not  popularly 
credited  with,  and  therefore  it  may  as  well  be  set  down  to  him. 
Besides,  it  may  serve  as  an  example  to  fledgeling  geniuses  of  what 
he  thought  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  his  work. 

But  the  chief  interest  of  these  notes  and  memoranda  lies  in 
the  outlook  they  give  us  upon  the  conduct  of  the  story.  It  is  not 
desirable  to  print  them  all  ;  indeed  to  do  so  would  be  to  copy  a 
long  list  of  mere  references  to  boc^ks,  magazines,  and  journals,  wliere 
such  byway  bits  of  illustration  are  to  be  found  as  lit  Mr.  Thackeray's 
mind  to  so  vivid  an  insight  into  manners  and  character.  Still,  we 
are  anxious  to  give  the  reader  as  comi)lete  an  idea  of  the  story 
as  we  can. 

First,  here  is  a  characteristic  letter,  in  which  Mr.  Thackeray 
sketches  his  plot  for  the  information  of  his  publis^ier  : — 

"My  dear  S , — I  was  born  in  the  year  1764,  at  Win- 

chelsea,  where  my  father  was  a  grocer  and  clerk  of  the  churcli. 
Everybody  in  the  place  was  a  good  deal  connected  with  smuggling. 

"  There  used  to  come  to  our  house  a  very  noble  French  gentle- 
man, called  the  Count  de  la  Motte,  and  with  him  a  German, 
the  Baeon  de  Lijtterloh.  My  father  used  to  take  packages  to 
Ostend  and  Calais  for  these  two  gentlemen,  and  perhaps  I  went  to 
Paris  once  and  saw  the  French  queen. 

"  The  squire  of  our  town  was  Squire  Weston  of  the  Priory, 
who,  with  his  brother,  kept  one  of  the  genteelest  houses  in  the 
country.  He  was  churchwarden  of  our  church,  and  much  re- 
spected. Yes,  but  if  you  read  the  Annual  Register  of  1781,  you 
will  find  tliat  on  the  13th  Jidy  the  sheriffs  attended  at  the  Tower 
OF  London  to  receive  custody  of  a  De  la  Motte,  a  prisoner  chnrtred 


558  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

with  higli  treason.  The  fact  is,  this  Alsatian  nobleman  being  in 
difficulties  in  his  own  country  (where  he  had  commanded  the  Regi- 
ment Soubise),  came  to  London,  and  under  pretence  of  sending 
prints  to  France  and  Ostend,  supplied  the  French  Ministers  with 
accounts  of  the  movements  of  the  English  fleets  and  troops.  His 
go-between  was  Liltterloh,  a  Brunswicker,  who  had  been  a  crimping- 
agent,  then  a  servant,  who  was  a  spy  of  France  and  Mr.  Franklin, 
and  who  turned  King's  evidence  on  La  Motte,  and  hanged  him. 

"  This  Liitterloh,  Avho  had  been  a  crimping-agent  for  German 
troops  during  the  American  war,  then  a  servant  in  London  during 
the  Gordon  riots,  then  an  agent  for  a  spy,  then  a  spy  over  a  spy,  I 
suspect  to  have  been  a  consummate  scoundrel,  and  doubly  odious 
from  speaking  English  with  a  German  accent. 

"  What  if  he  wanted  to  marry  that  charming  girl,  who  lived 
wih  Mr.  Weston  at  Winchelsea  ?     Ha  !  I  see  a  mystery  here. 

"  What  if  this  scoundrel,  going  to  receive  his  pay  from  the 
English  Admiral,  with  whom  he  was  in  communication  at  Ports- 
mouth, happened  to  go  on  boanl  the  Royal  George  the  day  she 
went  down  ? 

"As  for  George  and  Joseph  Weston,  of  the  Priory,  I  am  sorry 
to  say  they  Avere  rascals  too.  They  were  tried  for  robbing  the 
Bristol  mail  in  1780;  and  being  acquitted  for  want  of  evidence 
were  tried  immediately  after  on  another  indictment  for  forgery^ 
Joseph  was  ac(iuitted,  but  George  was  capitally  convicted.  But 
this  did  not  help  poor  Joseph.  Before  their  trials,  they  and  some 
others  broke  out  of  Newgate,  and  Joseph  fired  at,  and  wounded, 
a  porter  who  tried  to  stop  him,  on  Snow  Hill.  For  this  he  was 
tried  and  found  guilty  on  the  Black  Act,  and  hung  along  with  his 
brother.  ' 

"  Now,  if  I  was  an  innocent  participator  in  De  la  Motte's 
treasons,  and  the  Westons'  forgeries  and  robberies,  what  pretty 
scrapes  I  must  have  been  in  ! 

"  I  married  the  young  woman,  whom  the  brutal  Liitterloh  would 
have  had  for  himself,  and  lived  happy  ever  after." 

Here,  it  will  be  seen,  the  general  idea  is  very  roughly  sketched, 
and  the  sketch  was  not  in  all  its  parts  carried  out.  Another  letter, 
never  sent  to  its  destination,  gives  a  somewhat  later  account  of 
Denis — 

"  My  grandfather's  name  was  Duval ;  he  was  a  barber  and 
perruquier  by  trade,  and  elder  of  the  French  Protestant  church 
at  Winchelsea.  I  was  sent  to  board  with  his  correspondent,  a 
Methodist  grocer,  at  Rye, 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL  559 

"  These  two  kept  a  fisliiiig-boat,  but  the  fish  they  caught  was 
many  and  many  a  barrel  of  Nantz  brandy,  whicli  we  landed— never 
mind  where — at  a  place  to  us  well  known.  In  the  innocence  of  my 
heart,  I — a  child — got  leave  to  go  out  fishing.  We  used  to  go  out 
at  night  and  meet  ships  from  the  French  coast. 

"I  learned  to  scuttle  a  marlinspike, 
reef  a  lee-scupper, 
keelhaul  a  bowsprit 

as  well  as  the  best  of  them.  How  well  I  remember  the  jabbering 
of  the  Frenchmen  tlie  first  niglit  as  they  handed  tlie  kegs  over  to 
us !  One  night  we  were  fired  into  by  His  Majesty's  revenue  cutter 
Lynx.     I  asked  what  tliose  balls  were  fizzing  in  the  water,  &c. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  on  with  the  smuggling ;  being  converted  by  Mr. 
Wesley,  wdio  came  to  preach  to  us  at  Rye — but  that  is  neither  here 
nor  there.  .  .  ." 

In  these  letters  neither  "my  mother"  nor  the  Count  de  Saverne 
and  his  unhappy  wife  appear ;  while  Agnes  exists  only  as  "  that 
charming  girl."  Count  de  la  Motte,  the  Baron  de  Liitterloh,  and 
the  Westons,  seem  to  have  figured  foremost  in  the  author's  mind  : 
they  are  historical  characters.  In  the  first  letter,  we  are  referred 
to  the  Anniuil  Register  for  the  story  of  De  la  Motte  and  Liitterloli : 
and  this  is  what  we  read  there — 

^^  January  5,  1781. — A  gentleman  was  taken  into  custody  for 
treasonable  practices,  named  Henry  Francis  de  la  Motte,  which  he 
bore  with  the  title  of  baron  annexed  to  it.  He  has  resided  in 
Bond  Street,  at  a  Mr.  Otley's,  a  woollen  draper,  for  some  time. 

"  When  he  was  going  upstairs  at  the  Secretary  of  State's  ottice, 
in  Cleveland  Row,  he  dropped  several  papers  on  the  staircase,  which 
were  immediately  discovered  by  the  messenger,  and  carried  in  with 
him  to  Lord  Hillsborough.  After  his  examination,  he  was  com- 
mitted a  close  prisoner  for  high  treason  to  the  Tower.  The  papers 
taken  from  him  are  reported  to  be  of  the  highest  importance. 
Among  them  are  particular  lists  of  every  ship  of  force  in  any  of 
our  yards  and  docks,  &c.  &c. 

"  In  consequence  of  the  above  papers  being  found,  Henry 
Liitterloh,  Esquire,  of  Wickham,  near  Portsmouth,  was  afterwards 
apprehended  and  brought  to  town.  The  messengers  found  Mr. 
Liitterloh  ready  booted  to  go  a  hunting.  When  he  understood 
their  business,  he  did  not  discover  the  least  embarrassment,  but 
delivered  his  keys  with  the  utmost  readiness,  .  .  .  Mr.  Liitterloh 
is  a  German,  ami  had  lately  taken  a  house  at  Wickham,  within  a 


560  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

few  miles  of  Portsmouth  ;  and  as  lie  kept  a  pack  of  hounds,  and 
was  considered  as  a  good  companion,  he  was  well  received  by  the 
gentlemen  in  the  neighbourhood. 

^^  July  14,  1781. — Mr.  Liitterloh's  testimony  was  of  so  serious 
a  nature,  that  the  court  seemeil  in  a  state  of  astonishment  during 
the  whole  of  his  long  examination.  He  said  that  he  embarked 
in  a  plot  with  the  prisoner  in  the  year  1778,  to  furnish  the  French 
Court  with  secret  intelligence  of  tlie  Navy ;  for  which,  at  first,  he 
received  only  eight  guineas  a  month ;  the  importance  of  his  in- 
formation appeared,  however,  so  clear  to  the  prisoner,  that  he 
shortly  after  allowed  him  fifty  guineas  a  month,  besides  many 
valuable  gifts ;  that,  upon  any  emergency,  he  came  post  to  town 
to  Monsieur  de  la  Motte,  but  common  occurrences  relative  to  their 
treaty,  he  sent  by  tlie  post.  He  identified  the  papers  foimd  in  his 
garden,  and  the  seals,  he  said,  were  Monsieur  de  la  Motte's,  and 
well  known  in  France.  He  had  been  to  Paris  by  direction  of  the 
prisoner,  and  was  closeted  with  Monsieur  Sartine,  the  French 
Minister.  He  had  formed  a  plan  for  capturing  Governor  Jolm- 
stone's  squadron,  for  which  he  demanded  8000  guineas,  and  a  third 
share  of  the  ships,  to  be  divided  amongst  the  prisoner,  himself, 
and  his  friend  in  a  certain  office,  but  the  French  Court  would  not 
agree  to  yielding  more  than  an  eighth  share  of  the  squadron. 
After  agreeing  to  enable  the  Frencli  to  take  the  commodore,  he 
went  to  Sir  Hugh  Palliser,  and  offered  a  plan  to  take  the  French, 
and  to  defeat  his  original  project  with  which  he  had  furnished  the 
French  Court. 

"  The  trial  lasted  for  thirteen  hours,  when  the  jury,  after  a 
short  deliberation,  pronounced  the  prisoner  guilty,  when  sentence 
was  immediately  passed  upon  him  ;  the  prisoner  received  the  awful 
doom  (he  was  condemned  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered) 
with  great  composure,  but  inveighed  against  Mr.  Liitterloh  in 
warm  terms.  .  .  .  His  behaviour  tliroughout  the  whole  of  this 
trying  scene  exhibited  a  combinatii:>n  of  manliness,  steadiness,  and 
presence  of  mind.  He  appeared  at  the  same  time  polite,  conde- 
scending, and  unaffected,  and,  we  presume,  could  never  have  stood 
so  firm  and  collected  at  so  awful  a  moment,  if,  when  he  felt  him- 
self fully  convicted  as  a  traitor  to  the  State  which  gave  him  pro- 
tection, he  had  not,  however  mistakenly,  felt  a  conscious  innocence 
within  his  own  breast  that  he  had  devoted  his  life  to  the  service  of 
his  country, 

"  M.  de  la  Motte  was  about  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  fifty 
years  of  age,  and  of  a  comely  countenance ;  his  deportment  was 
exceedingly  genteel,  and  his  eye  was  expressive  of  strong  penetra- 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL  56\ 

tion.     He  wore  a  white  cloth  coat,  and  a  hnen  waistcoat  worked  in 
tambour," — Annual  Register,  vol.  xxiv.  p.  184. 

It  is  not  improbable  that  from  this  narrative  of  a  trial  for 
high  treason  in  1781  the  whole  story  radiated.  These  are  the 
very  men  whom  we  have  seen  in  Thackeray's  pages  ;  and  it  is 
a  fine  test  of  his  insight  and  power  to  compare  them  as  they  lie 
embalmed  in  the  Annmd  Register,  and  as  they  breathe  again  in 
"  Denis  Duval."  *  The  part  they  were  to  have  played  in  the 
story  is  already  intelligible,  all  but  the  way  in  which  they  were 
to  have  confused  the  lives  of  Denis  and  his  love.  " '  At  least, 
Duval,'  De  la  Motte  said  to  me  when  I  shook  hands  with  him 
and  with  all  my  heart  forgave  him,  'mad  and  reckless  as  I  have 
been  and  fatal  to  all  whom  I  loved,  I  have  never  allowed  the  child 
to  want,  and  have  supported  her  in  comfort  when  I  myself  was 
almost  without  a  meal.' "  What  was  the  injury  which  Denis 
forgave  with  all  his  hearts  Fatal  to  all  whom  he  loved,  there 
are  evidences  that  De  la  Motte  was  to  have  urged  Liitterloh's 
pretensions  to  Agnes  :  whose  story  at  this  period  we  find  inscribed 
in  the  note-book  in  one  word — "  Henriette  Iphigenia."  For  Agnes 
was  christened  Henriette  originally,  and  Denis  was  called  Blaise. 

As  for  Monsieur  Liitterloh,  "  that  consununate  scoundrel,  and 
doubly  odious  from  speaking  English  \\\t\\  a  Crcrman  accent  "■ — ■ 
iiaving  hanged  De  la  Motte,  while  confessing  that  he  had  made  a 
solemn  engagement  with  him  never  to  betray  each  othci-,  and  then 
inunediately  laying  a  wager  that  De  la  Motte  tvoidd  be  hanged^ 
having  broken  open  a  secretaire,  and  distinguished  himself  in  various 
other  ways — he  seems  to  have  gone  to  Winchelsea,  where  it  was 
easy  for  him  to  tlireaten  or  cajole  the  Westons  into  trying  to  force 
Agnes  into  his  arms.  She  was  living  witli  these  people,  and  we 
know  how  they  discountenanced  her  faithful  affection  for  Denis. 
Overwrought  by  the  importunities  of  Liitterloh  and  the  Westons, 
she  escaped  to  Doctor  Barnard  for  protection  ;  and  soon  unexpected 

*  Among  the  notes  there  is  a  little  chronological  table  of  events  as  they 
occur — 

'*  Blaise,  born  1763. 
Henriette  de  Barr  was  born  in  1766-7. 
Her  father  went  to  Corsica,  '68. 
Motlier  fled,  '68. 
Father  killed  at  B. ,  'G9. 
Mother  died,  '70. 
Blaise  turned  out,  '79. 
Henriette  I<^iyei'i'a,  '81. 
La  Motte's  catastroi)he,  '82 
Rodney's  action,  '82." 
36 


562  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

help  arrived.  The  De  Viomesnils,  her  mother's  relations,  became 
suddenly  convinced  of  the  innocence  of  the  Countess.  Perhaps 
(and  when  we  say  perhaps,  we  repeat  such  hints  of  his  plans  as 
Mr.  Thackeray  uttered  in  conversation  at  his  fireside)  they  knew  of 
certain  heritages  to  which  Agnes  would  be  entitled  were  her  mother 
absolved  :  at  any  rate,  they  had  reasons  of  their  own  for  claiming 
her  at  this  opportune  moment — as  they  did.  Agnes  takes  Doctor 
Barnard's  advice  and  goes  off  to  these  prosperous  relations,  who, 
having  neglected  her  so  long,  desire  her  so  much.  Perhaps  Denis 
was  thinking  of  the  sad  hour  when  he  came  home,  long  years  after- 
wards, to  find  his  sweetheart  gone,  when  lie  wrote : — "  0  Agnes, 
Agnes !  how  the  years  roll  away !  What  strange  events  have 
befallen  us ;  what  passionate  griefs  have  we  had  to  suffer ;  what  a 
merciful  Heaven  has  protected  us,  since  that  day  when  your  father 
knelt  over  the  little  cot  in  which  his  child  lay  sleeping ! " 

At  the  time  she  goes  home  to  France,  Denis  is  far  away  fighting 
on  board  the  Arethusa,  under  his  old  captain,  Sir  Richard  Pearson, 
who  commanded  the  Sei-apis  in  the  action  with  Paul  Jones.  Denis 
was  wounded  early  in  this  fight,  in  whicli  Pearson  had  to  strike  his 
own  colours,  almost  every  man  on  board  being  killed  or  luu't.  Of 
Pearson's  career,  which  Denis  must  have  followed  in  after  days,  there 
is  more  than  one  memorandum  in  Mr.  Thackeray's  note-book : — 

^'  Serapis,  R.  Pearson.     '  Beatson's  Memoirs.' 
"  Gentleman's  Magazine,  49,  pp.  484.      Account  of  action  with 
Paul  Jones,  1779. 

"  Gentleman's  Magazine,  502,  pp.  84.    Pearson  knighted,  1780. 
"  Commanded  the  Arethusa  off  Ushant,  )  '  Field  of  Mars,' 
1781,  in  Kempenfeldt's  action.  j  art.  Ushant." 

And  then  follows  the  question — 

"  Qy.  How  did  Pearson  get  away  from  Paul  Jones  1 " 

But  before  that  is  answered  we  will  quote  the  "story  of  the 
disaster  "  as  Sir  Richard  tells  it,  "  in  words  nobler  than  any  I  could 
supply ;  "  and,  indeed,  Mr.  Thackeray  seems  to  have  thought  much 
of  the  letter  to  the  Admiralty  Office,  and  to  have  found  Pearson's 
character  in  it. 

After  some  preliminary  fighting — 

"  We  dropt  alongside  of  each  other,  head  and  stern,  when  the 
fluke  of  our  spare  anchor  hooking  his  quarter,  we  became  so  close, 
fore  and  aft,  that  the  muzzles  of  our  guns  touched  each  other's 
sides.     In  this  position  we  engaged  from  half-past  eight  till  half- 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL  563 

past  ten  ;  during  which  time,  from  the  great  quantity  and  viiriety 
of  combustible  matter  which  tliey  threw  in  ni)on  our  decks,  chains, 
and,  in  short,  every  part  of  the  ship,  we  were  on  fire  no  less  than 
ten  or  twelve  times  in  different  ])arts  of  the  ship,  and  it  was  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  and  exertion  imaginable  at  times,  that  we 
were  able  to  get  it  extinguished.  At  the  same  time  the  largest  of 
the  two  frigates  kept  sailing  round  us  the  whole  action  and  raking 
us  fore  and  aft,  by  which  means  she  killed  or  w^ounded  almost  every 
man  on  the  quarter  and  main  decks. 

"  About  half-past  nine,  a  cartridge  of  powder  was  set  on  fire, 
which,  running  from  cartridge  to  cartridge  all  the  way  aft,  blew  up 
the  whole  of  the  peojjle  and  officers  that  were  quartered  abaft  the 
mainmast.  ...  At  ten  o'clock  they  called  for  quarter  from  the 
ship  alongside ;  hearing  this,  I  called  for  the  boarders  and  ordered 
them  to  board  her,  which  they  did ;  but  the  moment  they  were  on 
board  her  they  discovered  a  superior  number  laying  under  cover 
with  pikes  in  their  hands  ready  to  receive  them ;  our  people  re- 
treated instantly  into  our  own  ship,  and  returned  to  their  guns  till 
past  ten,  when  the  frigate  coming  across  our  stern  and  pouring  her 
broadside  into  us  again,  without  our  being  able  to  bring  a  gun  to 
bear  on  her,  I  found  it  in  vain,  and,  in  short,  impracticable,  from 
the  situation  we  were  in,  to  stand  out  any  longer  with  the  least 
prospect  of  success.  I  therefore  struck.  Our  mainmast  at  the 
same  time  went  by  the  board.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry  for  the  misfortune  that  has  happened — 
that  of  losing  His  Majesty's  ship  I  had  the  honour  to  command  ; 
but  at  the  same  time,  I  flatter  myself  Avith  the  liopes  that  their 
Lordships  will  be  convinced  that  she  has  not  been  given  away,  but 
that  on  the  contrary  every  exertion  has  been  used  to  defend  her." 

Tlie  Serapis  and  the  Countess  of  Scarhorougli,  after  drifting 
about  in  the  North  Sea,  were  brought  into  the  Texel  by  Paul  Jones; 
when  Sir  Josej)!!  Yorke,  our  ambassador  at  the  Hague,  memorialised 
their  High  Mightinesses  the  States-General  of  the  Low  Countries, 
requesting  that  these  prizes  might  be  given  up.  Their  High  Mighti- 
nesses refused  to  interfere. 

Of  course  the  fate  of  the  Serajns  was  Denis's  fate  ;  and  the 
question  also  is,  how  did  he  get  away  from  Paul  Jones  ?  A  note 
written  immediately  after  the  query  suggests  a  hairbreadth  escape 
for  him  after  a  double  imprisonment. 

"  Some  sailors  are  lately  arrived  from  Amsterdam  on  board  the 
Lcetitia,  (-aptain  March.  They  were  taken  out  of  the  hold  of  a 
Dutch  East  Lidiaman  by  the  captain  of  the  Kingston  privateer, 


564>  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

who,  having  lost  some  of  his  people,  gained  some  information  of 
their  fate  from  a  music-girl,  and  liad  spirit  enough  to  board  the 
ship  and  search  her.  The  poor  wretches  were  all  chained  down  in 
the  hold,  and  but  for  this  would  have  been  carried  to  perpetual 
slavery." — Gentleman's  Magazine,  50,  pp.  101. 

Do  we  see  how  truth  and  fiction  were  to  have  been  married 
here  1  Suppose  that  Denis  Duval,  escaping  from  one  imprisonment 
in  Holland,  fell  into  the  snares  of  Dutch  East  Indiamen,  or  was 
kidnapped  with  the  men  of  the  Kingston  privateer  ?  Denis  chained 
down  in  the  hold,  thinking  one  moment  of  Agnes  and  the  garden 
wall  which  alone  was  too  much  to  separate  them,  and  at  the  next 
moment  of  liow  he  was  now  to  be  carried  to  perpetual  slavery, 
beyond  hope.  And  then  the  music-girl;  and  the  cheer  of  the 
Kingston's  men  as  tliey  burst  into  the  hold  and  set  the  prisoners 
free.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  what  those  chapters  would  have  been 
like. 

At  liberty,  Denis  was  still  kept  at  sea,  where  he  did  not  rise  to 
the  heroic  in  a  day,  but  progressed  through  all  the  commonplace  duties 
of  a  young  seaman's  life,  which  we  find  noted  down  accordingly  : — 

"He  must  serve  two  years  on  board  before  he  can  be  rated 
midshipman.  Such  volunteers  are  mostly  put  under  the  care  of 
the  gunner,  wlio  caters  for  them ;  and  are  permitted  to  walk  the 
quarter-deck  and  wear  the  uniform  from  the  beginning.  When 
fifteen,  and  rated  midshipmen,  they  form  a  mess  with  the  mates. 
Wlien  examined  for  their  commissions  they  are  expected  to  know 
everything  relative  to  navigation  and  seamanship,  are  strictly  ex- 
amined in  the  different  sailings,  working  tides,  days'  works,  and 
double-altitudes — and  are  expected  to  give  some  account  of  the 
different  methods  of  finding  tlie  longitudes  by  a  time-keeper  and 
the  lunar  observations.  In  practical  seamanship  they  must  show 
how  to  conduct  a  ship  from  one  place  to  another  under  every  dis- 
advantage of  wind,  tide,  &c.  After  this,  the  candidate  obtains  a 
certificate  from  the  captain,  and  his  commission  when  he  can  get  it." 

Anotlier  note  describes  a  personage  whose  acquaintance  we  have 
missed : — 

"  A  seaman  of  the  old  school,  whose  hand  was  more  familiar 
with  the  tar-brush  than  with  Hadley's  quadrant,  Avho  had  peeped 
into  the  mysteries  of  navigation  as  laid  down  by  J.  Hamilton 
Moore,  and  who  acquired  an  idea  of  the  rattletraps  and  rigging  of  a 
slup  through  the  famous  illustrations  which  adorn  the  pages  of 
Darcy  Lever." 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL  565 

Denis  was  a  seaman  in  stirring  times.  "  Tlie  year  of  which  we 
treat,"  says  the  Annval  Register  for  1779,  "presented  the  most 
awful  appearance  of  public  affiiirs  wliicli  peihaps  this  cf)untry  had 
beheld  for  many  ages ; "  and  Duval  had  part  in  more  than  one  of 
the  startling  events  which  succeeded  each  other  so  rapidly  in  the 
wars  with  France  and  America  and  Spain.  He  was  destined  to 
come  into  contact  witli  Major  Andrd,  whose  fate  excited  extraordinary 
sympathy  at  the  time  :  Washington  is  said  to  have  shed  tears  when 
he  signed  his  death-w^arrant.  It  was  on  the  2nd  of  October  1780 
that  this  young  officer  was  executed.  A  year  later,  and  Denis  was 
to  witness  the  trial  and  execution  of  one  whom  he  knew  better  and 
was  more  deeply  interested  in,  De  la  Motte.  The  courage  and 
nobleness  with  which  he  met  his  fate  moved  the  sympathy  of  Duval, 
whom  he  had  injured,  as  well  as  of  most  of  those  who  saw  him  die. 
Denis  has  written  concerning  him  : — "  Except  my  kind  namesake, 
the  captain  and  admiral,  this  was  the  first  gentleman  I  ever  met  in 
intimacy,  a  gentleman  with  many  a  stain, — nay,  crime  to  reiJroach 
him,  but  not  all  lost,  I  hope  and  pray.  I  own  to  having  a  kindly 
feeling  towards  that  fatal  man." 

Liitterloh's  time  had  not  yet  come ;  but  besides  that  we  find 
him  disposed  of  with  the  Royal  George  in  the  first  quoted  letter, 
an  entry  in  the  note-book  unites  the  fate  of  the  bad  man  with  that 
of  the  good  ship.* 

Meanwhile,  the  memorandum  "  Rodney's  action,  1782,"  indicates 
that  Duval  was  to  take  part  in  our  victory  over  the  French  fleet 
commanded  by  the  Count  de  Grasse,  who  was  himself  captured  with 
the  Ville  de  Paris  and  four  other  ships.  "  De  Grasse  with  his 
suite  landed  on  Southsea  Common,  Portsmouth.  They  were  con- 
ducted in  carriages  to  the  '  George,'  where  a  most  sumptuous  dinner 
had  been  procured  for  the  Count  and  his  suite,  by  Vice-Admiral  Sir 
Peter  Parkes,  who  entertained  him  and  his  oflicers  at  his  own 
expense."  Here  also  was  something  for  Denis  to  see ;  and  in  this 
same  autumn  came  on  the  trial  of  the  two  Westons,  when  Denis 
was  to  be  the  means — unconsciously — of  bringing  his  old  enemy, 
Joseph  Weston,  to  punishment.     There  are  two  notes  to  this  effect. 

"  1782-3.  Jo.  Weston,  always  savage  against  Blaise,  fires  on 
him  in  Cheapside. 

"The  Blach  Act  is  9  George  II.  c.  22.  The  preamble  says  :  — 
'Whereas  several  ill -designing  and  disorderly  persons  have  associated 
themselves  under  the  name  of  Blacks,  and  entered  into  confederacies 

*  Contemporary  accounts  of  the  fouuderint,''  of  the  Royal  Ocorne  represent 
her  crowded  with  people  from  the  shore.  Wc  have  seen  how  Liitterloh  was 
among  these,  having  come  on  board  to  receive  the  price  of  his  treason. 


566  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

to  support  and  assist  one  another  in  stealing  and  destroying  deer, 
robbing  warrens  and  fish-jionds.'  ...  It  then  goes  on  to  enact  that 
'  if  any  person  or  persons  shall  wilfully  or  maliciously  shoot  at  any 
person  in  any  dwelling-house  or  other  place,  he  shall  suffer  death  as 
in  cases  of  felony  without  benefit  of  the  clergy.'  " 

A  Joseph  Weston  was  actually  found  guilty  under  the  Black 
Act,  of  firing  at  and  wounding  a  man  on  Snow  Hill,  and  was  hanged 
with  liis  brotlier.  Mi\  Thackeray's  note-book  refers  him  to  "  The 
Westons  in  'Session  Papers'  1782,  pp.  463,  470,  473;"  to  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  1782  ;  to  "Genuine  Memoirs  of  George  and 
Joseph  Weston,  1782  ;"  and  Notes  and  Queries,  Series  I.  vol.  x.* 

The  next  notes  (in  order  of  time)  concern  a  certain  very  dis- 
interested action  of  Duval's  : — 

''Deal  Riots,  1783. 

"  Deal. — Here  has  been  a  great  scene  of  confusion,  by  a  party 
of  Colonel  Douglas's  Liglit  Dragoons,  sixty  in  number,  who  entered 
the  town  in  the  dead  of  the  night  in  aid  to  the  excise  officers,  in 
order  to  break  open  the  stores  and  make  seizures  :  but  the  smugglers, 
who  are  never  unprepared,  having  taken  the  alarm,  mustered 
together,  and  a  most  desperate  battle  ensued." 

Now  old  Duval,  the  perruquier,  as  we  know,  belonged  to  the 
great  Mackerel  party,  or  smuggling  conspiracy,  wiiich  extended  all 
along  the  coast ;  and  frequent  allusion  has  been  made  to  his  secret 
stores,  and  to  the  profits  of  his  so-called  fishing  expeditions. 
Remembering  wliat  has  been  written  of  this  gentleman,  we  can 
easily  imagine  the  falsehoods,  tears,  lying  asseverations  of  poverty 
and  innocence  which  old  Duval  must  have  uttered  on  the  terrible 
night  when  the  excise  officers  visited  him.  But  his  exclamations 
were  to  no  purpose,  for  it  is  a  fact  that  when  Denis  saw  what  was 
going  on  he  burst  out  with  the  truth,  and  though  he  knew  it  was 
his  own  inheritance  he  was  giving  up,  he  led  the  officers  right  away 
to  the  hoards  they  were  seeking. 

His  conduct  on  this  occasion  Denis  has  already  referred  to 
where  he  says : — "  There  were  matters  connected  with  this  story 

*  These  notes  also  appear  in  the  same  connection : — 

"Horsestealers. — One  Saunders  was  committed  to  Oxford  gaol  for  horse- 
stealing, who  appears  to  have  belonged  to  a  gang,  part  of  whom  stole  horses 
in  the  north  coimties,  and  the  other  part  in  the  south,  and  about  the  midland 
counties  the}'  used  to  meet  and  exchange.  — GcnUcmans  Mariazine,  39,  165. 

"1783.  Capital  Coiirictions. — At  the  Spring  Assizes,  1783,  119  prisoners 
received  sentence  of  Death." 


NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL  567 

regarding  wliicli  I  could  not  speak.  .  .  .  Now  they  are  secrets  no 
more.  That  ohl  society  of  smugglers  is  dissolved  long  ago :  nay, 
I  shall  have  to  tell  presently  how  I  helped  myself  to  break  it  up." 
And  therewith  all  old  Duval's  earnings,  all  Denis's  fortune  that  was 
to  be,  vanished ;  but  of  course  Denis  prospered  in  his  profession, 
and  had  no  need  of  unlawful  gains.* 

But  very  sad  times  intervened  between  Denis  and  prosperity. 
He  was  to  be  taken  ])risoner  by  tlie  French,  and  to  fret  many  long 
years  away  in  one  of  tlieir  arsenals.  At  last  tlie  Revolution  broke 
out,  and  he  may  have  been  given  up,  or — thanks  to  his  foreign 
tongue  and  extraction — found  means  to  escape.  Perhaps  he  went 
in  search  of  Agnes,  whom  we  know  he  never  forgot,  and  whose 
great  relations  were  now  in  trouble ;  for  the  Revolution  which  freed 
him  was  terrible  to  "aristocrats." 

This  is  nearly  all  the  record  we  have  of  this  part  of  Denis's  life, 
and  of  the  life  wliich  Agnes  led  while  she  was  away  from  him. 
But  perhaps  it  was  at  this  time  that  Duval  saw  Marie  Antoinette  ;  f 
perhaps  he  found  Agnes,  and  helped  to  get  her  away  :  or  had  Agnes 
already  escaped  to  England,  and  was  it  in  the  old  familiar  haunts — 
Farmer  Perreau's  Cohimharium.,  where  the  pigeons  were  that 
Agnes  loved ;  the  Rectory  garden  basking  in  the  autumn  evening ; 
the  old  wall  and  the  pear-tree  behind  it ;  tlie  plain  from  whence 
they  could  see  the  Frencli  liglits  across  the  Channel ;  the  little 
twinkling  window  in  a  gable  of  the  Priory-house,  where  the  light 
used  to  be  popped  out  at  nine  o'clock — tliat  Denis  and  Agnes  first 
met  after  their  long  separation  ? 

However  that  may  have  been,  we  come  presently  upon  a  note 
of  "a  tailor  contracts  to  supply  three  superfine  suits  for  <£11,  lis. 
{Gazetteer  and  Daily  Advertiser) ;  "  and  also  of  a  villa  at  Becken- 
ham,  with  "  four  parlours,  eight  bedrooms,  stables,  two  acres  of 
garden,  and  fourteen  acres  of  meadow,  let  for  .£70  a  year,"  which 
may  have  been  the  house  the  young  people  first  lived  in  after  they 

*  Notices  of  Sussex  smuggling  (says  the  note-hook)  are  to  be  found  in  vol.  x. 
of  Sussex  Archceological  Collections,  69,  94.  Reference  is  also  made  to  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  vol.  viii.  pp.  292,  172. 

+  The  following  memoranda  appear  in  the  note-book  : — 

"  Marie  Antoinette  was  born  on  the  2nd  November  1755,  and  her  saint's 
day  is  the  Fete  des  Morts. 

"In  the  Corsican  expedition  the  Legion  de  Lorraine  was  under  the  Baron 
de  Viomesnil.  He  emigrated  at  the  commencement  of  the  Revolution,  took 
an  active  part  in  the  Army  of  Conde,  and  in  the  emigration,  returned  with 
Louis  XVIII.,  followed  him  to  Gaud,  and  was  made  marshal  and  peer  of 
France  after  '15. 

"Another  Vi.  went  with  Rochambeau  to  America  in  1780." 


568  NOTES    ON    DENIS    DUVAL 

were  married.  Later,  they  moved  to  Fareport,  where,  as  we  read, 
the  admiral  is  weighed  along  with  his  own  pig.  But  he  cannot 
have  given  up  the  service  for  many  years  after  his  maiTiage,  for  he 
writes  : — "T'other  day,  when  we  took  over  the  King  of  France  to 
Calais  (H.R.H.  the  Duke  of  Clarence  being  in  command),  I  must 
needs  have  a  post-cliaise  from  Dover  to  look  at  that  old  window  in 
the  Priory-house  at  Winchelsea.  I  went  through  the  old  wars, 
despairs,  tragedies.  I  sighed  as  vehemently  after  forty  years  as 
tiiough  the  infandi  dolores  were  fresh  upon  me,  as  though  I  were 
the  schoolboy  trudging  back  to  his  task  and  taking  a  last  look  at 
his  dearest  joy." 

"  And  who,  pray,  was  Agnes  1 "  he  writes  elsewliere.  "  To-day 
her  name  is  Agnes  Duval,  and  she  sits  at  her  work-table  hard  by. 
The  lot  of  my  life  has  been  changed  by  knowing  her — to  win  such 
a  prize  in  life's  lottery  has  been  given  but  to  very  few.  What  I 
have  done — of  any  worth— has  been  done  by  trying  to  deserve 
her."  .  .  .  ^^  Monsieur  man  fils" — (this  is  to  his  boy) — "if  ever 
you  marry,  and  have  a  son,  I  hope  the  little  chap  will  have  an 
honest  man  for  a  grandfather,  and  that  you  will  he  able  to  say,  '  I 
loved  him,'  when  the  daisies  cover  me."  Once  more  of  Agnes  he 
writes  : — "When  my  ink  is  run  out,  and  my  little  tale  is  written, 
and  yonder  churcii  that  is  ringing  to  seven  o'clock  prayers  shall  toll 
for  a  certain  D.  D.,  you  will  please,  good  neighbours,  to  remember 
that  I  never  loved  any  but  yonder  lady,  and  keep  a  place  by  Darby 
for  Joan  when  her  turn  shall  arrive." 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


},  1  1932 

'^^^  2  7  1Q32 

MAR  2  9  1931' 

MAY  2  ^  1938 


AUG     g  1 


m  APR    7j3^3 
MAR  3  1 1969 


R  E  C  E  I  V  E  D 


MAIN  LOAN 


DESK 


SEP  8-1864 


A.M. 

7181911011111211 


l».M. 


UC  SOLITHFRrj  RFGIUMAI 


IBR 


AA    000  380  17 


